Proof
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: There's blood on the wall and a knife in the dumpster.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them

**Author's Note**: Teddy Hollins is Mark's ex-cellmate who shows up on the lam from his corrupt parole officer in 'The Crystal Duck'. In that episode, McCormick lets him hide out in the Gatehouse, very much against both of their parole agreements

This piece first appeared in the fourth Star for Brian fund-raising 'zine.

**Proof**

By L. M. Lewis

Mark knew the rules, and generally never tried to break the same one twice. Everything else fell under the heading of 'better to beg forgiveness than ask permission'.

So, after the Teddy Hollins debacle, he made a special point of always making sure that he had Hardcastle's blessing when he got together with his ex-cellmate. And most of the meetings took place at Gull's Way, for an extra veneer of propriety. But McCormick hadn't had to ask permission for a while; he'd been busy and he presumed Teddy had been, too, which is why the call that came on Saturday morning took him by surprise.

"She's the one," Teddy gushed. The man didn't do things by half measures.

"Which one?" Mark grinned, the phone tucked against his ear while he stacked breakfast dishes. "And where'd you meet her?"

"_The_ one. My soul mate. It's destiny."

The judge, not even privy to the gushing, rolled his eyes as he stood up from the table.

"She moved into the apartment upstairs from me." There was just the slightest of pauses, as though even Teddy knew the next part might be a reach. "Yesterday," he finished up. If he was more subdued, it was subtle.

To McCormick's credit, he didn't laugh, though Teddy tended to be pretty oblivious to less obvious expressions of disbelief. "'Yesterday'?" Mark just repeated his last word, with a hint of doubt.

"Okay, yeah, I know. But think about it, even people who've been together for fifty years had a first date."

"You've already gone out with her?"

"No, well, not exactly. But I helped her carry her boxes in, and we talked. And . . . and she seemed really nice. _Friendly_—"

"Just ask her out. Pizza or something."

There was an unexpected and unusual silence from the other man's end of the line. Teddy finally said, "Yeah, that's easy for you to say, Mark; you've never had any problems with women."

McCormick was rarely left speechless, but when he was, the person talking to him was usually Teddy. This time, he quickly concluded that there wasn't enough oxygen on Planet Hollins to sustain intelligent life and he ought to give up the search.

"So," he finally sighed, "if you aren't going to ask her out, what are you going to do?"

He heard sighing from Teddy's end, too, and then, almost wistfully, "I thought maybe you could come over, and we could hang out, you know, around the place, and if she comes in or goes out, that'd be a great excuse, me having to introduce you. And, you know, I really want you to meet her."

"I dunno, I think I'd just get in the way."

He left it at that; the other part was a little embarrassing to explain, even to Teddy—that Hardcase would veto him 'hanging out' with a fellow parolee. It was one of those things the parole board frowned on, though he supposed it was the most technical of technical violations. The rule probably hadn't even occurred to Hollins.

But somebody must've turned the oxygen up, because Teddy's next words were, "The judge'll give you a hard time, huh?"

Mark gritted his teeth. That it should be apparent even to Teddy somehow aggravated him even more than when the man was oblivious.

"It's not _that_," he said, knowing the hesitation had probably cut into his credibility. "Listen, I've got some stuff to do here, and then some errands to run. Maybe later, okay?" He was glad Hardcastle had already left the room, and he realized he'd dropped his voice a notch or two.

Teddy sounded grateful enough not to admit he'd noticed. He was already thanking him. "That'd be great, maybe, like around five or so. You know, we could cook some burgers. Maybe I can ask her if we can borrow something."

"Pickles? Ketchup?"

But Teddy had already spiraled up again into irrepressible and didn't seem to notice the tone. "Thanks, Mark. You're a pal. You're gonna love her."

Mark realized that his 'maybe' had somehow gotten lost in translation. He considered reinforcing the idea, but knew it was already too late. Teddy had heard a more definite commitment and anything less would be seen as backing out on a promise. And, anyway, Teddy didn't even give him a chance to mull it over before giving the hasty good-bye of a man who had some getting ready to do.

McCormick hung the phone up and then stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out why conversations with Teddy tended to end up this way—with him nodding along in agreement to something that was entirely against his better judgment. He finally took a deep breath and let it out. At least this time it was no big deal—he glanced guiltily over his shoulder in the direction of the den—certainly nothing worth getting Hardcase stirred up about. He'd run by Hollins' place on the way home from his other errands—just a quick stop, meet the girl, maybe give her a sterling testimonial about Teddy, and that'd be that.

00000

Luckily, Hardcastle had gotten used to the idea that going out and finding parts for the nearly twenty-year old 'Vette was an open-ended mission—not like picking up a couple of spark plugs at the local dealership. Mark figured as long as he came home with something, and didn't stay out much past dark, he'd be in the clear.

He already had the somethings. He glanced down at the passenger-side floor of the truck as he pulled up to the curb in front of Teddy's place. A fan blade and clutch, along with a starter solenoid, were neatly laid out on newspaper—a good afternoon's work. He shook off the briefly nagging feeling of guilt. He wouldn't even have to lie about this. He'd just bring the parts home and keep his mouth shut.

He climbed out and locked up. This wasn't a neighborhood where there was a lot of trust floating around. Teddy had the 'garden' apartment—a converted half-basement with security bars on the window. _A little reminder of home_. Mark sighed as he sauntered past them to the door. A separate entrance led down, and he didn't have to knock; it was already open. Teddy must've been watching for him.

He got an appraising eye from his old roommate and then, "Skid, you look kinda, um, grubby."

Mark looked down at himself. The knees of his jeans showed evidence of ground contact, but some of that might have been from the garden this morning—the rest from the scrap-yard. There were a couple of black smudges on his worn but functional shirt, and his hands were fairly dirty.

"I've been working," he said.

"I was hoping you'd make a good impression."

"_I_ don't want to date her," Mark replied indignantly.

Hollins just shook his head. "First impressions are really important. Don't you ever listen to the counselors?"

"No, Teddy," Mark said. "I don't do that stuff anymore. I've got Hardcase, and he doesn't put a lot of emphasis on fashion sense. You got a sink in this joint?"

Teddy pointed toward the back, following behind him and switching tone and gears abruptly. "And she's here. I mean, upstairs. She came down for her mail a little while ago but it hadn't come yet and I told her I'd keep an eye out and let her know when it got here."

Mark hit the faucet and looked over his shoulder. The other man was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Okay, well, that should get here soon, right? And you can introduce me to her and I'll put in a good word for you and then I gotta haul out. I've got things to do," he added, unnecessarily.

"Aw . . . okay." Teddy looked very slightly crestfallen. Then he turned abruptly. They'd both heard footsteps out front. Mark finished drying his hands as Teddy headed that way.

He heard the brief conversation on the front stoop. "Patricia Wilcox—she's in 2A. She asked me to take in her mail for her."

"I dunno, regulations . . ." The mailman sounded doubtful, but then there was a pause, as if he were looking through his bundles. "Nah, nothing here for that name anyway."

"Oh," he heard the disappointment in Teddy's voice, "okay."

The outer door was closed with a scrape and a snick. Mark watched him walk back into the kitchenette, hands in pockets and a downcast expression.

"Well," he said practically, "you told her you'd let her know when the mailman came. You can still do that, even if she didn't get anything, right?"

"Yeah."

"Hey," Mark furrowed his brow for a moment, "you told me you met her yesterday. She was just moving in?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well why the hell would she be expecting any mail this soon? You think she had the place rented for a while and didn't bring her stuff over till now?"

Hollins had lifted his chin and now was cocking his head.

"Teddy, my man," Mark smiled, warming to the subject, "that was an excuse, and not even a very good one. You were being scoped out. Lemme guess, she was down here looking around, and you came out and she acted a little nervous and neither one of you knew what to say—"

"Yeah," Teddy said with more enthusiasm, "that's about it."

"And she looked at the mail boxes and then came up with that."

Hollins gave this idea a fractional moment of thought and then nodded happily.

"So," Mark slapped him on the shoulder, "you just head on up there and give her the mail report and then ask her what she likes on her pizza."

The nodding slowed. Teddy's face clouded. "I dunno, I hate to disappoint her like that. Might get the whole thing off on the wrong foot."

"I don't think she's going to hold you responsible for no overnight delivery."

Hollins cocked his head at this, still looking doubtful. "I suppose," he said slowly. Then he brightened with sudden resolve. "Yeah, you're right. I'll just head on up there and—"

That burst of positive thinking was interrupted by sounds from just outside—the door to the upper apartments opening and closing and then some footsteps.

"It's _her_." Teddy's voice had dropped to a nervous whisper.

It was, or at least Mark assumed it was from the goofy expression that Teddy has assumed when he turned and saw the figure in his open doorway. It was a nice figure, tall and a little on the thin side; that much was obvious from the tight jeans and the tube top.

Hard to tell anything else with the backlight, but the voice said, "Anybody home?"

"No mail," Teddy blurted out. "I mean, none for you."

Mark tried not to roll his eyes. He gave his friend a fairly subtle nudge.

"Hey, Patty," Teddy almost hiccoughed it out, "this is an old buddy of mine, Mark, Mark McCormick. He's a racecar driver."

Mark couldn't help it; his eyes at least made it halfway round, but the woman didn't seem to have noticed Teddy's lack of composure. She might have looked a little startled, though, to realize that Hollins had other company.

But she'd already stepped into the apartment. "Oh, hi, I'm the new upstairs neighbor."

There was nothing unusual about the words but, now that he could see her face, there was something off in the expression. Mark reassessed his earlier notion; this didn't look like a woman who was casually scouting out the prospects for romance.

"Racing?" She'd ducked her chin back slightly toward her shoulder and the ground-level window behind her. "That yours?" she asked, doubtfully indicating the ancient truck parked at the curb just outside.

"No, it's, um, a friend's," Mark said. "I was picking up some spare parts for the 'Vette." He wasn't sure why he'd just thrown that in. He wasn't the one trying to make an impression and he really didn't care what this woman thought of the judge's junker.

"_Oh_," she said, and there was an upturn to her smile—not particularly directed at Teddy. "What year?"

"A '64," he answered reflexively.

"Oh," she said again, maybe a little disappointed at the response, but then she added, "I like sports cars."

Maybe she did, but he thought it was more a case of liking guys who could afford them. He'd finally placed the oddness of her initial expression. He had the distinct impression that she'd been assessing him, sizing him up the way a business person evaluates a potential customer. And she didn't strike him as a siding salesman. Without the back light he could see her face now, the hardness around her eyes, even when she smiled.

"The 'Vette's not mine, either. I just keep it running," Mark said.

He wasn't in a position to judge how other people made a living—what they had to do to get by. At least he figured this passed under the heading of 'victimless crimes'—a crime in name only, as far as he was concerned.

He heard Teddy soldiering on, oblivious. "Mark's got this prototype race car, the Coyote. You should see it."

"Sounds nice. I'd like that," she added, turning a causal comment into an accepted invitation.

Mark gave that a very controlled nod and smiled without commitment. It was an understandable mistake on her part, but there was no way he could set her straight in front of his friend. Which, of course, left the question—why was she cultivating the obviously unprofitable Teddy Hollins? But he supposed even professionals had down time—sort of a busman's holiday, like when he'd used to take the Porsche out on one of those quiet desert stretches and cut her loose.

Teddy was still chatting on, something about burgers. Mark frowned and tried to pick up the conversation.

"Can't stay," he said helpfully. "Gotta get these parts home and see if I can get the thing back on its feet again." There, he'd done his bit. Time to bow out gracefully before Patty started quoting him her rates.

She looked mildly disappointed, but she'd apparently already agreed to stick around. He edged past her, smiling thinly. Teddy was saying, 'I'll call ya, okay?' and he heard himself offering assurances that he'd stay in touch.

And he drove home, feeling a little unsettled but not sure exactly why.

00000

His extra stop had escaped notice, the parts were installed without incident, and he put the whole episode behind him. He wasn't even curious when Teddy didn't call on Sunday to give him a full report. That could mean things had gone badly, or very, very well, and either way Teddy didn't want to discuss it. Mark wasn't sure he was up to dealing with a play-by-play of Hollins' love life.

So the call on Monday morning, painfully early and waking him from a sound sleep, came as a complete surprise.

"_I got a little problem, Mark_."

"Teddy?" McCormick tried not to groan as he squinted at the clock on the nightstand. "Yeah, well, you've got a problem now, waking me up before six—"

"_Listen, they're only letting me have the one phone call, so could you maybe not waste it chewing me out?_"

Mark was instantly awake, sitting up even, with a cold chill of immediate comprehension. "Where? . . . and _why_?"

Even Hollins knew about the importance of brevity under these circumstances. "_Central. Been here a couple of hours. I think I'm gonna need a lawyer. They keep asking me about Patty."_

"What about her?"

"_I dunno. Something musta happened, Skid, but it wasn't me, whatever it was. I swear._"

"Okay . . . okay. Just questions so far, no charges?" Mark ran his fingers through his hair, calculating fast and fighting down a clenching knot in the pit of his stomach. It was fear, pure and simple. He glanced out the window toward the main house—the residence of the nearest and most available legal consultant.

"_They haven't told me nothin', Mark._ _Just a bunch of questions_."

Mark laid his arm across his updrawn knees and then rested his forehead on it. He let out a long breath and finally said, "Okay, don't say anything until I can get you a lawyer."

"_They said I oughta cooperate; it'll be easier—"_

"For them, yeah," Mark muttered. The fear hadn't subsided; instead it was now being augmented by the knowledge that dragging Hardcastle into this—whatever 'this' was—would mean confessing his own meeting with Teddy on Saturday afternoon. "Just sit tight, Teddy. I'll try and get some information."

"_You're a pal, Pal_." There was a sound of movement, and a voice in the background, an echoey environment, saying the time was about up. Teddy said 'good-bye' hastily and that was that.

Mark hung up the phone and gazed out the window again. There was a very good chance that Hardcastle was already up, but heading over there at this hour would be nothing less than a red flag. Better to get up, collect his thoughts, and intercept him under the hoop in a half-hour or so. There was certainly no question of going back to sleep.

But six-thirty came and went with no sign of the judge, and basketball at dawn was as close to a ritual as things got on the estate. At seven, McCormick's curiosity overcame his trepidation. He stepped out the door, dressed a little less casually than he would be for an ordinary day of yard work, and headed up the drive toward the front door.

As he'd suspected, there was a shape and some movement visible through the den window. He thought about slipping round to the back, which would be his modus operandi for mornings where he was hungry enough to start rustling up breakfast unrequested, but there didn't seem to be any point in evading the inevitable. He went to the front and let himself in.

Almost immediately, he became aware that Hardcastle was on the phone, and apparently at the tail end of a conversation. He heard the judge's brief and businesslike farewell and then the sound of the receiver being placed back in the cradle. He didn't have much time to assess the implications; he was already through the door and at the steps leading down to the den.

Hardcastle was sitting, pensive. He broke his glare from the phone he'd been holding, dragging it up to focus on the younger man. Mark swallowed once. His 'good morning' had gotten stuck in his throat, which was suddenly quite dry. He substituted a nod and sidled into the room.

The judge was frowning now. He pointed to a chair. Mark sat.

"That was Gil Talbott from the parole office."

Mark recognized the name. Teddy had mentioned his new parole officer in passing a few times, nothing strongly worded. He nodded in what he hoped was a calm, unconcerned way.

The judge was still looking stern. "Teddy was taken into custody this morning. Something about a missing woman. Don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"

"Yeah." As moments of decision went, it was surprisingly easy. Mark realized he'd already made up his mind a few moments earlier. "I got a call from Teddy about a half-hour ago."

He saw Hardcastle's eyebrows go up. They both knew Teddy wasn't in a position to make casual phone calls; that McCormick should have received this one could be interpreted as an attempt at collusion.

"He doesn't know what it's all about, either," Mark added hastily.

"The woman's name is Wilcox."

"His new upstairs neighbor."

"That phone call, the first one, Saturday morning. He mentioned her then?"

Mark nodded again, nervously. "You know Teddy. He gets a little, I dunno, _enthusiastic_. He met her Friday, when she moved in."

"Whirlwind romance?" Hardcastle's question had an edge of weary sarcasm to it.

Mark sat quietly for a moment, then sighed and admitted, "He was moonstruck. He was _Teddy_. You know?"

The judge said nothing. It was a very penetrating silence.

"Look," Mark finally added, "he gets a little goofy around women, but he'd never in a million years _hurt_ somebody—"

"How can you be sure?" Hardcastle interrupted. "A nice girl, he thinks he's getting a signal, maybe a misunderstanding, an accident—he mighta panicked."

McCormick shook his head. "No, not Teddy."

"He's a compulsive liar—"

"Well, yeah, but he's not violent. Never was. He'd take it and he wouldn't fight back. I've _seen_ it. You think a guy like that would force himself on a woman? _Teddy_?"

He saw the judge's expression shift to grudging acquiescence. He wasn't sure how much of this was faith in Teddy himself, or faith in the man who was vouching for him. Whichever it was, he was grateful for it, and felt a twinge of guilt.

"I met her," he added abruptly.

"Saturday?" Hardcastle asked. His tone was grimly resigned. "Yeah," he answered his own question. "Had to be." He sighed. "So, you were 'the other guy who was hanging around'. That's what one of the neighbors told the police. Said you were driving a beat-up old truck." Hardcastle grimaced. "The good news is, the witness says the woman was still alive when you left."

Mark hadn't gotten past the notion of confessing his minor sin to Hardcastle. The thought of any greater suspicions from the authorities hadn't even occurred to him. Now he realized he'd ducked a bullet, without even having seen the gun drawn. He scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to get a grip on the rush of emotions that _that_ had provoked.

"He wanted me to meet her," he finally said. "I dunno," he added quietly, "he thinks I'm good with women." The statement had absolutely none of his usual confident nonchalance. "I guess he figured me being there would be an excuse for him to start up a conversation. Who the hell knows how Teddy's mind works?"

He glanced up at the judge, hoping for a glimmer of understanding. He got blank disbelief. He plunged ahead. "So, I went by there on the way home Saturday. I just stopped off, washed my hands, and said hi to the woman—"

"She was in his apartment?"

"Yeah, she came down there. Something about the mail. It sounded like an excuse to me."

"So she mighta liked him? Mighta been setting her cap for him?"

Mark half-smiled at the old-fashioned expression. The smile flattened as he considered his initial impression of Patty Wilcox.

"I don't think she was really the 'setting her cap' type, Judge. More like somebody with a rate schedule." He said it almost reluctantly, realizing it was nothing but that—an impression. Hardcastle stared at him in what appeared to be incomprehension. "A professional," Mark added, a little less confidently, and then, quiet but blunt, "a prostitute."

"I know _what _you were saying," the judge huffed. "I just don't know _why_."

Mark squirmed. "I don't know. Facial expressions, clothes, body language. What she said . . . well, maybe not that. More like the way she said it. And it doesn't mean she couldn't have been interested in Teddy. I mean unprofessionally . . ." His words petered out. He wasn't sure if he was helping. "But they must've run her name by now; you said she's missing, right?"

He watched Hardcastle shake his head. "If she was that, a 'professional', if she has a record, should it make a difference? You of all people—"

"I didn't say that," Mark replied indignantly. "I just meant if she was that, there might be a different explanation than Teddy. She might have just gone off with somebody and not told—" He frowned, interrupting himself, then asked, "Who reported her missing? Must've been kinda fast."

"Talbott said it was a girlfriend of hers." He looked down at a scratch pad on the desk in front of him. "Rita Mae Ebbins. But it wasn't just a routine missing persons. She saw signs of foul play—blood in the apartment."

Mark blanched. "How much blood?"

"I couldn't act _that_ interested, not without getting Talbott all curious."

"But no body? They're still calling it a missing person? Hell, maybe she cut herself and went to the hospital."

"The report came in on Sunday afternoon and the police have already checked all the likely possibilities. Talbott says there's other evidence pointing to Teddy, too. Fingerprints in the woman's apartment."

"He helped her move in on Friday."

"And a note in her diary. No details on that, but it got them all interested in Hollins."

Mark gave that a puzzled frown. "If Wilcox is what I think she is, then there might have been other people who wanted to hurt her, too—an old employer, or a customer. But so far it's all circumstantial," he said, with less confidence that he wished. "And we don't even know what it's evidence _of_. They can't call it murder without a body, can they?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "It's not easy, but if they put enough pieces together . . ." he winced at his own choice of words and then started over. "_Listen_, it's been done. There was a case back in the fifties; all they had were some ashes and a set of false teeth."

"I don't think she had _that_ kind of falsies," Mark said grimly. "And I don't think she's even necessarily dead." He shook his head. "I think they're kinda jumping the gun here, because they have an ex-con handy."

"All I'm saying is _corpus delicti_ doesn't mean you actually have to have a corpse. And they're looking pretty hard right now. What else do you think they're going to find?"

Mark swallowed again. "My prints, in Teddy's apartment. If they look."

"Yeah, I already figured that." Hardcastle was reaching for the phone again. "At least we've got a neighbor willing to vouch for you."

"You want me to give them a statement? Do you think it would help Teddy?" McCormick asked, nervous again.

"No, not yet." The judge shook his head. He started to dial without having had to look the number up. "I want an inside track. I'm gonna talk to Frank. Find out what else they know."

00000

McCormick thought maybe it was a bad sign, the judge not chewing him out then and there for his clandestine meeting with this old cellmate. It could mean things were even more serious than he'd thought and Hardcastle had no time or energy for minor distractions.

He sat and listened, worriedly, to the judge's half of the conversation with Lieutenant Harper. It sounded as if, understandably, Frank wasn't up to speed on the case. In the end it came down to plans for a meeting, and Hardcastle was very insistent on having it not be at the police station.

Mark expected he'd finally get around to some choice words about parole violations once he'd hung up, but even then the judge was silent on the subject. Oddly, though, it made the next part harder for McCormick.

He cleared his throat. Hardcastle looked up from the scratch pad, frowning at the interruption to his thoughts.

McCormick couldn't think of any other way to put it, except straight out. "Teddy needs a lawyer."

To his surprise, what he got back, almost immediately, was a simple nod. It looked for all the world like agreement, though Mark wasn't sure if he'd spelled it out enough.

"I mean, he needs a _good_ lawyer."

"Well," Hardcastle said dryly, "I don't know about 'good', but the price is right, so he's stuck with me."

Despite the gnawing worry that had settled in the pit of his stomach, Mark managed a quick and grateful grin. "Will you go and see him today? After you find out what Frank knows? I could tell he was scared this morning. He needs to know what's going on."

He got a grunt that was grudging agreement.

This time he paused for a moment. He felt like he was approaching the bone of contention from a slightly different direction and he just might get yelled at after all. He wondered if maybe he wasn't hoping for it—as a sign of normality. He sighed, then took another breath and said, "When you go, could I maybe go with?"

The judge furrowed his brow. "That might be a bad idea."

Mark's 'Why?' was quietly non-challenging.

"Look, kiddo," Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose, "I don't think this is a real good time to remind anybody down there that you're a close personal friend of their number one murder suspect."

"Might calm him down a little, seeing a friendly face."

"_I'm _a friendly face, aren't I?"

McCormick didn't contradict him. It didn't seem like a wise move just then. He just nodded doubtfully.

00000

Mark had stationed himself at the hedges and was trimming, slowly and methodically, in a way intended to make the job last. Frank showed up a little after ten, looking harried and maybe even a little suspicious. He got a nod, a 'hi', and an anxious smile from the younger man, then an otherwise-silent escort to the front door.

"This Hollins guy," Frank began abruptly, almost before he'd taken a seat in the den, "you know him, huh?" That part was directed at Hardcastle. Obviously Frank's investigation had already informed him that Mark and Teddy were associates.

"Yeah," the judge sighed. "You weren't around when that was going on. Teddy had some issues with his first parole officer, a guy named Quinlan. We helped him sort it out."

Mark found a seat of his own and kept his fuming entirely internal. He knew it was just a word, not an attitude, but hearing Hardcastle refer to Quinlan's strong-arm tactics as an 'issue' galled him.

Even Frank's eyebrow had gone up at the choice of terms. "Issues, huh? I heard you turned the parole office upside-down. Quinlan's looking at a least a dozen felony charges and his supervisor got some heavy-duty reprimands. You didn't make many friends on that one, Milt. Nobody likes having someone else come in and do their dirty laundry like that."

"Maybe his supervisor should have been paying more attention," the judge said with obvious irritation.

"Well, yeah." Frank nodded and looked thoughtful as he reached into his pocket for a notebook. "Teddy might not be the most popular guy down at the parole board, either, I suppose, but there's some real good suspicions on him this time." He hesitated, casting a quick sideward glance at McCormick.

The judge looked impatient. He said, "Talk."

Frank looked like a man who was setting his better judgment aside, but he flipped the notebook open. "The call came in around one, yesterday. Friend of the victim—"

"_Alleged_ victim," Mark interjected, then slumped back down in his seat at two sharp glares from the other men.

"The missing person," Frank amended grudgingly. "Anyway, her friend called to report that she'd gone to Wilcox's apartment; she'd been a no-show for a lunch date. The friend became alarmed when she found the door unlocked, standing ajar. She went in, found bloodstains—"

"How much?"

Frank frowned. "Will you let me tell the damn story, Mark?"

McCormick subsided again, nodding once.

"It's not how much; it was the pattern, spatters on the wall in the bedroom, nothing sharp lying around, and a couple of smudges in the hall leading to the back door. Wilcox's car was parked on the street, out front. Not disturbed. The investigating officer takes a look, then talks to the downstairs neighbor. Turns out the woman heard some scuffling and a scream, both around eleven the night before. She's not sure about the exact time."

"She didn't do anything about it then?" the judge asked.

"She turned over and went back to sleep. You familiar with that neighborhood, Milt? Lots of screaming." Frank sighed. "Okay, so, this is enough for the beat cop. He kicks it over to the detectives, and they have a poke around and find the woman's diary." Frank frowned and added, "I didn't know anyone really kept a diary." He shrugged. "But, anyway, our missing person did, and it was right next to her bed on the nightstand, open with a pen sitting on it, left off in mid-sentence like she might have been doing that right before she might have allegedly bled on her wall." He arched an eyebrow at McCormick.

"What'd it say, Frank?" Hardcastle prodded wearily, as if he already knew he wasn't going to like the answer.

Frank didn't hesitate this time. He didn't glance down at his notebook even. "The last entry was about how she mostly liked her new place, except for the guy who lived in the basement apartment, who'd been putting the moves on her. It said she'd tried to give him the brush-off that evening, but he didn't seem to get the message, and when she was more direct, he'd gotten angry. And the last words were 'Someone's at the door.'"

"She _wrote_ that?" Mark asked incredulously.

Frank shrugged again. "Weirder things have happened. The detectives rousted out the landlord; he lives on the first floor. He told them who the guy in the basement apartment was. So, that was enough to get the evidence techs into Wilcox's apartment—no weapon found, but more flecks of blood in the sink. And they lifted some prints. Lots of prints. Didn't take 'em long to come up with a match."

"He helped her move in," Mark muttered.

"Must've carried a lot of stuff into her bedroom. Prints on the nightstand—"

"Why would he have left the damn diary?" Mark looked at the judge, who was still silently contemplating. "He still needs a lawyer. This whole thing stinks. He needs _you_."

"You're his lawyer?" Frank frowned. He flipped the notebook closed. "I think you should've mentioned that."

"He hasn't even been charged with anything yet, has he?"

"No," Harper grudged, "but no one's seen the woman for over thirty-six hours, and they're starting to think they're looking for a body."

"I'll go see him," Hardcastle said, directing this to the younger man. "You'll stay here."

"There was something else in the diary. It was before that last bit," Frank added, speaking with slow deliberation. "Wilcox said she met another guy that afternoon—no names mentioned, but she said he was tall, thin, nice head of hair. He was driving a beat-up old truck but said he had a sports car at home. Offered to show it to her sometime."

"She say where she met this guy?" Hardcastle's eyes narrowed.

"Something about when she went down to look for the mail. She thought her being interested in this other person had maybe upset the guy in the basement. Anyway, the detectives would like to talk to him—one of the last people to see her on Saturday."

Frank was already getting to his feet, notebook stuffed back in his pocket and a grim look on his face. He shook his head and added, "I'd give 'em about three days before they narrow _that_ list down, maybe less if you show up to talk to your client, Milt. You might want to back off on this one; let one of those nice kids from the public defenders' office get a little practice."

"It really stinks," Mark said with finality. "And Teddy still needs a good lawyer."

"I said I would," the judge said brusquely.

Harper headed for the door to the hallway. He looked back, casting a long look at Mark. It might have been disappointment. Then, as though he'd considered something and come to a decision, he directed a glance at Hardcastle as well.

"Might be the kid is right about that," he admitted, his lips set in a tight, near-grimace for a moment. "I ran that Wilcox woman's name, too."

"I thought you'd decided she was the victim," Mark said with a tinge of bitterness.

Frank shrugged. "Probably that, too, but I always like a little background, helps me figure the trajectory sometimes. Anyway, she's been a busy woman. In and out a few times, mostly prostitution—caught holding drugs once, but not much came of it."

"Any unfinished business from all that?" the judge asked.

"She cooperated. The case involved a guy named Victor Cavessi and she informed on him. Looks like she got out from under some charges of her own on that one, but he's still doing five years in Folsom. Nobody else on her dance card right now, according to our files."

Hardcastle grunted. "Lotta stuff doesn't wind up in your files." There was something familiar and slightly encouraging in his tone. Mark watched him start to rise.

Frank waved the judge back into his seat. "I'll see myself out." McCormick hadn't gotten up; the effort seemed too great.

There was nothing further said until they heard Frank's car start up and drive away. Then the judge lifted the scratchpad off the desk, studying it with a deep frown. He finally slapped it back down on the desk.

"It mighta helped," he muttered, "if you two hadn't cluttered up the whole thing with _side_ issues."

Mark sank back further in his chair. The long-awaited chewing-out had still managed to arrive unexpected. He kept his expression even and resisted every urge to explain away the offense. Best, he thought, to get this part out of the way, table it as old business and move on to doing whatever had to be done to get Teddy out of this jam.

To his surprise, it went no further. The judge was on his feet, reaching into his pockets, fishing out the key. "S'pose I better take the 'Vette," he half-muttered to himself.

"Sure you don't want me to drive?" Mark offered cautiously. He got a sharp glare from the older man.

"Trim some hedges. Stay out of trouble. That'll help." He was already up the steps, and almost to the front door, before Mark had thought his way through a half-dozen potential responses, and rejected them all. The last one came out, almost unbidden.

"Tell him . . ." He hesitated, then started up again as Hardcastle paused with his hand on the knob. "Tell him everything will be okay."

"What if it isn't?" the judge said stiffly.

"Say it anyway."

"You mean, lie to him?"

"It's what he needs to hear right now." Mark lifted his chin, his gaze now steady. "_Really_."

00000

It was a few moments before McCormick heard the 'Vette pull out and down the drive, and a few moments further before he made up his mind. It'd be another case of begging forgiveness, but he had no intention of wasting time trimming hedges when he could get a start on digging up some potentially useful information from Hardcastle's files. He'd seen the look on the man's face when Frank had mentioned the name 'Cavessi'; it'd been a glimmer of recognition.

Chances were, if he hadn't pushed the judge so hard to get over and see Teddy, they'd both be heading down to the file room right now. The only difference would be they'd have had keys.

No matter. He'd already popped a file drawer lock once before, when the judge had left him a stack of files to put back and no other option. He'd done it that time because he'd been annoyed and wanted to make a point. The judge had said nothing; maybe he hadn't even realized the drawer hadn't been left unlocked in the first place. Either way, it was precedent—even Hardcastle would have to admit that.

Mark didn't even bother making a trip back to the gatehouse for his official equipment. A couple of paperclips from the judge's desk drawer would do the trick, them and a cup of coffee; fear, and nervous energy, would only take a man so far.

00000

He was still down there when he heard the front door, distant, and not followed by Hardcastle's usual impatient bellow.

"Down here," he said, just shy of a shout. He'd made up his mind a while back that he was going to be straightforward about this transgression, especially if he uncovered anything useful.

He heard the judge's tread on the basement steps. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for a confrontation. Instead, the grim face that appeared, a moment later in the doorway, merely eyed the stacks of folders without comment.

Mark gave him a beat to open the conversation and that having produced nothing, said, "How's Teddy holding up?"

A slump-shouldered sigh, and then the judge pulled out the chair across from him at the table and sat down. "He's Teddy," he said gruffly. "A little nervous, maybe, but it's hard to tell if it's much worse than usual. He says he's kept his mouth shut so far, but what do you think are the odds of that being true?"

"Well, I'm sure they got him talking; getting him to shut up is always the real challenge," Mark admitted, "but whether he said anything is the real question."

"And I ran into one of the detectives while I was there—a guy named Izzy Perkins. He wasn't working this case, but he knows me and you know the word'll get back pretty fast. Anyway, I'm the attorney of record now."

Mark nodded.

"Oh, and Teddy said he's sorry."

"Great," Mark said, "if you hadn't already known about Saturday, he'da blown it right there. And this is the guy you're hoping can keep his mouth shut till we've got a handle on this?"

"Hey, you're the one who pays him unauthorized social calls," the judge pointed out gruffly. Then he cast one quick look at the two file drawers that were still open, and jerked his chin at the piles on the table. "You find anything useful?"

No more comment than that. Mark smiled apologetically and said, "I figured the hedges could wait."

"Maybe they can and maybe they can't."

Mark frowned. "Whaddaya mean?"

Hardcastle shook his head, more weary than angry, it appeared. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose. "You still aren't getting this, huh? When these guys put this together, I mean the part about you being over there at Teddy's on Saturday—"

"But like you said, I've got an alibi; the neighbor saw me leave before anything could have happened—"

"They haven't got a murder case yet; they haven't got _anything_, except a whole lot of circumstantial evidence. Well, that and a slam-dunk parole violation, once they ID you as Teddy's other company."

Mark blanched.

"Yeah, exactly. They can't hold him much longer without charges on this, but if they want to make sure Teddy stays put while they keep looking for a body, all they have to do is invoke the letter of the law and bust him for the technical."

"But—"

"Right, you're a matched set on that one. Normally wouldn't be more than sixty days for something like that but I'd say with these circumstances they'll try and stiff him with the whole year, if they need it."

Mark paled further. The casual announcement of sixty days had been quickly overshadowed by the greater hazard.

"And if they don't turn something up in a year, then they could always pull up the earlier episode—you two idiots hiding him in the gatehouse—and they'll have their second year."

"They wouldn't . . . _they_—"

"Can do whatever they damn well please, and if they really think he's killed her, they'll sure as hell use every trick in the book to get him off the street and keep him from bolting. And you'll just be collateral damage. Hell, they probably think you're an accessory to it anyway."

Mark sat, stunned, saying nothing.

"_So_," Hardcastle interrupted his shock impatiently, gesturing to the files on the table between them, "you find anything?"

It took a moment for the younger man to recover his equilibrium. He tried to swallow and found his mouth had suddenly gone dry. Hardcastle, fortunately, took up the slack in the conversation.

"'Course there's stuff there about the dad—Thomas Cavessi. Vic was his older son, right?"

Mark nodded.

"None of this drug-running in the old days. Cavessi senior would've spat on that notion. His racket was gambling and prostitution—high-priced call girls—and some extortion and a little blackmail on the side. Never pinned anything on him, though, and I ought to have retired that file. He died last year—cancer, I think."

"Ah," McCormick blinked, dragging his mind back into the conversation. There were hundreds of files, but the judge knew most of them at least that well. "Yeah," he finally said, "there's an obituary in there somewhere. Got the surviving family members all listed, 'Devoted sons, Victor and Emmanuel.'"

"I suppose Vic couldn't attend the funeral," the judge said dryly, "and, anyway, I'm willing to bet his dad disowned him after the drug bust. Those old-time capos had a strange notion of what's proper and what's not."

"Cut him out of the will? That's another reason for Victor to have had it in for his ex-girlfriend."

"Yeah," the judge agreed, "but he's up in Folsom—that's a better alibi than Teddy has."

"The brother, Manny, maybe? He might've waited till dear old dad died before going after Patty Wilcox. Hell, maybe she knew the dad—right line of work and all."

Hardcastle gave this a grunt of potential agreement. "You made a list from that file? Relatives and other interested parties?"

Mark nodded.

"Good." Hardcastle checked his watch. "Not too late to run a few things down. Frank's probably still at the office."

00000

The call got made a few minutes later from the study. Hardcastle put the phone on speaker. Mark stayed back and kept his mouth closed.

"_Can't tell you much, Milt. At least not about what's going on. Things have gotten a little cool around here. Perkins came round and asked me what was up with you and Hollins, then I think he went and talked to Pete Shalmerson. You know Pete? He's the lead guy on this case. I think they were doing stuff pretty routine until they got wind that you were sniffing around. Now all of a sudden everybody's a lot more interested and some of 'em get pretty quiet when I walk in the room_." The sigh at the end of it all was very audible, even over the line.

"I don't care who knows I'm the guy's defense attorney. Everyone's entitled to representation," Hardcastle said staunchly. Then he faltered, so slightly that Mark thought it might have been unnoticeable to anyone but him. "But I'm not going for a writ, nothing like that," the judge added. "I want 'em to go ahead and get this out of their system. I'm pretty confident they aren't going to find anything worth charging him over—sure as hell not murder.

"And all I'm looking for from you is the old case file from Victor's charges, and anything new you've got on Cavessi—anybody on the outside who might owe the guy a favor, or want to give him a hand, starting with his little brother, Manny."

"_Yeah,_" they heard Harper mutter, "_I can probably get you that. But you maybe want to go at this with a little less than your usual 'damn-the-torpedoes' attitude. There might be a torpedo or two out there with Mark's name on it._"

McCormick sank deeper into his chair. Even Frank had figured out which way this thing might go, and Frank thought like the guys who just might make it happen.

"When can you get the stuff?" Hardcastle asked with an impatience that made Mark even more nervous.

There was a half-syllable from the other end of the line, followed by an unaccustomed hesitation. Then Frank finally said "_Gimme a couple of hours. It'll be better if I shuffle the request through as a routine . . . and I'll drop a copy off by you once I've got it_."

"Sure it wouldn't be faster if I came for it?" the judge prodded.

"_No_." This time, Frank's response had been swift. It was followed by a wearily adamant, "_Bad idea, Milt. Not you and definitely not Mark. I'll bring it to you_."

That seemed to be all there was to say. The judge didn't keep him on the phone any longer and Frank sounded glad to be saying goodbye.

A couple more calls got made, this time to persons unknown to Mark and with the receiver in Hardcastle's hand. In the end they had a current business address for Emmanuel Cavessi.

"He's calling himself a 'promoter'," the judge said, studying the scratch-pad again. "Kinda vague, but he's in the high-rent district."

"Oh, great," Mark said glumly. "A guy like that wouldn't bother to get his hands dirty with something like this. Next they'll be saying somebody hired Teddy to take the woman down."

"Relax." The judge got to his feet. "We haven't even got anything on this guy yet. And, who knows, maybe he'll turn out to be a do-it-yourselfer."

00000

They took the 'Vette, neither commenting on why, and they swung by Teddy's place first. Hardcastle drove by slowly, giving it all a long look.

From the front there were no external signs of a criminal investigation, but there was a police car stationed discreetly a half-block down. The judge braked smoothly and took the next corner after they'd passed the building. A quick glance up the alley confirmed there was an officer back there, and a police van, with a couple of technicians showing particular interest in a dumpster that sat behind the building.

"Being thorough?" Mark asked hopefully.

"Or acting on a tip. I think the cop was holding an evidence bag."

"Teddy didn't do it, so anything they find is good, right?"

He saw the judge nod yes, but there was enough of an element of doubt in his expression that McCormick wondered if his own earlier admonition—about needing reassurance, rather than the cold truth—was still in force.

Their next stop was the pricey steel-and-glass building in Santa Monica that housed Cavessi Enterprises—a whole floor, and at the top, if the elegant directory in the lobby was to be believed. Hardcastle stood there, apparently contemplating their next step, for long enough to attract the helpful attention of lobby security. This was definitely not his usual style, Mark realized, though he wasn't surprised to hear the judge say they were on their way up, an appointment. It did surprise him that he wasn't being sent back to wait in the 'Vette.

The whisper-quiet doors of the elegantly appointed elevator closed on them, and they were alone for a moment.

"I'll talk," Hardcastle said sternly, "and you won't. Okay?"

Mark nodded.

"And there's a good chance we won't even make it past the receptionist."

"But that'll mean something if we don't, right?" Mark added hopefully.

"Yeah," Hardcastle grunted, "it'll either mean he's got something to hide, or he's completely innocent. Take your pick."

The doors opened again, on a sparsely furnished, utterly modern waiting area. The receptionist turned from what she'd been doing and gave them a coolly polite smile. It was obvious that she kept track of who was expected and that they weren't on her mental list.

"May I—?"

"Milton Hardcastle to see Mr. Cavessi." His smile stopped just short of broad and there was nothing threatening about his demeanor.

"Do you have—?"

"No appointment, but we only need a few moments of his time and it _is_ a matter of some importance. _Private_," he added, dropping the smile down a few watts.

The receptionist frowned very gently, then pointed toward the casual grouping of sleekly-upholstered, black leather chairs. "I'll see if he's available," she replied, in a way that could not offend, but made no promises.

The judge nodded and they both wandered over to the seats, far enough away to prevent them from overhearing. Neither one sat. Mark took in the view from the height, glimmers of ocean between and beyond the other buildings, the afternoon sun glinting off of the traffic. He wondered how Teddy was doing. _No windows_. But Teddy had always been better at it than he was.

_Nonsense. You just can't tell with Teddy._

"You'll go see him tomorrow, right?" he asked, and he didn't need to turn his head to know that Hardcastle had twitched in surprise. "I mean, as long as they already know you're in on it, you might as well . . . and maybe I could go with," he added, hating how he sounded like a kid asking for something.

He spared a quick look to the side. Hardcastle was frowning.

"Bad timing . . . and it's still a bad idea," the judge said, in a tone that didn't brook argument. Then, almost conciliatory, "We'll talk about it later."

And that was as far as it got. The receptionist had lifted her head and was summoning them. Hardcastle shot him one last penetrating glance—another admonition to silence—and headed back to the desk. Mark stayed obediently at his heel as they were ushered through the teak double-doors and into what he supposed was Manny Cavessi's inner sanctum.

The man behind the expansive desk—chrome and glass—was just as sleek as his office appointments, manicured, suited, and blow-dried to perfection, with a smile that was the obvious pride of an expensive cosmetic dentist. The teeth were showing fairly prominently as they entered. Mark wasn't sure if it qualified as 'barring', but if not, it was close. Yet there was still at least the pretense of pleasant greeting.

"_The_ Milton Hardcastle?" The man had risen from his seat, a surprising act of courtesy, like a prince descending from his throne. His hand was extended, reaching across the desk.

Mark heard himself introduced. It was 'my associate' this time, a useful general-purpose job title. He got a nod, rather than a handshake, but there wasn't too much puzzlement in it. The amenities were concluded with a smile from the judge, and then they were all seated.

"This is a surprise, I must say," Cavessi said, still managing a smile. "I'll confess, I heard a lot about you growing up . . . from the old man, you know." A trace of sadness darkened his expression, all in perfect keeping with a not-too-distant period of mourning. "Every time he'd had a glass of two of the _vino_, out he'd come with the Judge Hardcastle stories."

"Nothing too awful, I hope." The judge in question smiled politely.

"Nah, everybody needs a _bete noire_; probably kept him alive a few extra years, and it's not like you ever nailed him for anything." The smile was back, with the slightest hint of the shark to it. "But I never thought I'd get to meet you myself. I'd heard you had retired a little while back."

"From the bench, yes," Hardcastle nodded again, "but I still keep my hand in."

"I'd heard that, too," Cavessi said dryly. "But what can I do for you?"

He was to the point, but still looked unworried. McCormick heard the judge clear his throat, but the first words out were almost relaxed.

"Patty Wilcox. You've heard the name?"

Mark didn't know what he'd been expecting to see, but whatever it had been, he was disappointed. Cavessi merely nodded at the question and said, "Yeah, one of Victor's old girlfriends. But you must know that, huh? She landed him in the joint." The only change in Manny's demeanor was a slight downshift to the vernacular.

"A bum rap?" Hardcastle asked quietly.

Manny didn't fidget, though his eyes narrowed somewhat. After that came an elaborate shrug. "Who knows? That's what Vic says."

"You don't have an opinion?"

"He's my brother," Cavessi said abruptly. Then, just as abruptly, he softened it with a grin, "And not to you, no. I'm not even sure why I'm talking to you right now. Vic's got himself four more years to serve. He couldn't even attend Dad's funeral."

"The woman, Wilcox, she's missing. Did you know that?"

"A cop stopped by a little while ago; he asked me some questions. I told him I didn't know anything about it." His eyes narrowed slightly more. "You didn't know that, huh? What's _your_ angle on this?"

"Concerned citizen," Hardcastle said flatly. "So far," he added after a beat.

"Well, I wish you luck."

Cavessi was pushing himself up from his desk, a clear sign of dismissal. Mark watched Hardcastle start to rise as well.

"If I should hear anything, I told that cop I'd let him know." Cavessi was back to a bland smile. "I don't think that's likely, though." He left it hang as to exactly which part wasn't going to happen.

There were no handshakes of farewell and Mark didn't think they'd be getting an invitation to stop in anytime without an appointment. Hardcastle said nothing more besides the briefest of goodbyes. There were back in the elevator before he spoke again.

"Well, I suppose we've served notice."

"Of what?" Mark asked.

"Intent to stick our noses into things."

"I don't think we exactly have him running scared over that," Mark replied philosophically.

"That's just 'cause he doesn't know us yet."

McCormick couldn't help it; the older man's matter-of-fact confidence drew a smile from him. He suspected it might be his last one for a while.

00000

The drive home was sober and Mark half expected to see a black and white at their doorstep. His surreptitious sigh of relief was short-lived, though. The message light on the judge's phone was flashing when they stepped into the den.

Three blinks and a pause. It was unlikely that none of them would be bad news. Hardcastle let out a sigh of his own and sat down, looking in no particular hurry to hit the play button. Mark hesitated a moment, but then decided he'd rather hear it all sitting down, too.

_Click_. And the first voice was Frank's, speaking in low tones and sounding a little rushed. "_Listen, Milt, Shalmerson stopped by. He was asking about Mark, wanted to know about your 'arrangement'. He got Teddy's file from the parole office and he saw Mark's name in it—the whole thing with Quinlan. He's already got all the pieces. I think his next stop is gonna be records, and right after that he'll be flashing photos at the witnesses, see if he can't put a bow on it. Just thought I'd warn you._"

That was it. Nothing about bringing the Cavessi file out, and a definite sense of not wanting to stay on the phone too long. Hardcastle hit pause as if to steel himself for what looked like the inevitable second punch.

"Let's get it over with," Mark said quietly.

Hardcastle hit the button again. This time it was an unfamiliar voice, but an introduction followed quickly on the businesslike hello. "_Detective Shalmerson, LAPD. We're looking for a parolee, Mark McCormick, in connection with a current case. Just questioning at this point_." There was nothing else except a callback number and a curt goodbye.

The judge hit the pause button again and sat back slowly. He rubbed his nose and muttered, "Beats a squad-car and handcuffs."

"That's only a matter of time," Mark replied with dark foreboding. "I'd say by tomorrow morning, latest, if he doesn't get a call back."

Hardcastle nodded.

"Go ahead," McCormick pointed at the machine, now down to a single flash, "it can't get any worse."

"Wanna bet?" The judge hit the play button again.

They both recognized this voice. "_Dammit, Milt_," It was John Dalem, Mark's former, and, to some uncertain extent, current parole officer, "_you know I hate to be blindsided. What the hell's going on? Call me._"

Not even a polite goodbye on that one. Mark saw Hardcastle cast a quick look down at his watch, as if he were hoping it was past business hours at Dalem's office. Not that it would matter much; Dalem was the kind of guy who would expect a call at home on something like this.

"Shalmerson must've called him to get the lowdown on you," the judge said after a moment.

Mark nodded. Then he frowned. "Okay, before I call that detective back, I think I need some legal advice."

"Take the fifth," Hardcastle said. "And you better eat something before you go down there. Could be a long night."

00000

He thought the sandwich might turn out to be one of Hardcastle's better ideas. Mark only wished he'd had enough appetite to choke down more than a couple of bites. Shalmerson had had no problems with issuing an after-hours invitation.

McCormick was driving this time, and it was the Coyote. It had been the judge's choice and had appeared casual, but might have been his way of suggesting that this wasn't going to be a one-way trip. Mark had settled in behind the wheel, hoping that being there would work its usual magic, but this time he couldn't relax.

He stole quick glances to the side and thought the judge looked tense, too, but Hardcastle wasn't offering any nervous, last-minute advice. He seemed to think he'd made himself understood. Mark thought maybe they didn't have a lot left to discuss there.

There'd been a quick call from the judge to Dalem's answering machine—politely informing him that Mark was cooperating fully with the authorities. It was nothing that could be labeled as outright avoidance, but timed so that they'd already be in the car before he could possibly get back to them again.

McCormick wisely didn't pull into one of the short-term spaces. He knew even standing mute would take more than fifteen minutes, though he hoped the judge wouldn't hang around for the booking.

They announced themselves at the sergeant's desk and were ushered in. It wasn't to Shalmerson's office, but an interrogation room. That by itself seemed a pretty good indicator of how things lay, Mark thought. They were made to wait a little while—also a sure sign, in McCormick's opinion. When they eventually arrived—Shalmerson, who introduced himself straight off to the judge, and a shorter one, named Rogers, who reminded Mark of a younger Harper—they had a tape recorder.

It might have been Hardcastle's presence. Shalmerson asked him straight out if he was acting as counsel this time, too.

The judge gave that a nod, and then added, "If it comes to that."

The detective frowned for a moment, as though he was still puzzling through the whole situation. Mark could hardly blame the guy. But it was no surprise that the Miranda card was out a moment later. Shalmerson seemed like a by-the-book kind of guy.

Hardcastle seemed almost relieved to have it all out on the table as though it would make the next part less awkward. Mark had his doubts about that, but he nodded his understanding to what was being read and then even managed to say 'Yeah, I understand' for the benefit of the tape recorder.

Shalmerson took only a moment to establish who was speaking and being spoken to, and the date and circumstances, then he was all business. "You know a man named Teddy Hollins?"

It was a good opening gambit. There was no point to denying that and Mark didn't bother. There were a couple more like that, intended to develop a cadence, gentle tugs, like setting the hook before the fish is reeled in. Mark almost resented it, but he understood the process.

And then the hook set harder. "You spent time with Mr. Hollins on Saturday—late in the afternoon."

He didn't even have to look at Hardcase. He knew what he was supposed to do—spit the damn hook out, take the fifth, just shut it down, and if he hesitated, Hardcastle would do it for him.

"Yes," he said flatly, without more than a second's hesitation. "I did."

He felt the judge in motion, next to him, felt him starting to lean forward, and could picture the expression on his face even before he turned to intercept him. "No," he said flatly, without turning at all, "they need to know this part." He still didn't turn. He heard the judge grumble something. It was almost inaudible, which was a good thing with the tape recorder still going.

He didn't even wait for the next question. He had a feeling he'd taken everyone by surprise.

"I stopped by Teddy's place on the way home Saturday. Must've been around four, four-thirty."

Shalmerson glanced down at his notepad and then up, with a nod.

"I went in, washed my hands, we talked for a few minutes."

"About what?"

"My lack of fashion sense," Mark said dryly. "He was trying to impress a girl he'd just met."

Both detectives were now leaning forward, looking mildly astonished. Mark still hadn't risked a look at Hardcastle, but he heard a muted, clicking sound of disapproval that pretty much said it all.

"Teddy talked to the mailman."

Shalmerson scribbled briefly in the notebook.

"Turns out the woman had asked him to keep an eye out for her mail, which we agreed was stupid, because she'd just moved in the day before." Mark let that part speak for itself. He was pleased to see at least a puzzled frown from Rogers. "Then a couple minutes later the woman comes down the stairs, comes into Teddy's place, looks like she feels at home." He said this last part casually, not like he was trying to sell it, though it was the point of the whole thing.

"And he introduced us. We talked about cars for a minute, and then I left. I had to get home. That was all."

"So she was still there when you left."

"Yes," Mark said, "she came down there and she didn't make any move to leave when I did."

He realized as he said it, that the whole truth and nothing but the truth had a bit of a sharp edge to it; it wasn't wholly exonerating for Teddy. But, most important, it contradicted completely what he knew of the woman's journal entry, and that information given straight off would be ten times more valuable than if he finally coughed it up, days or weeks from now, when he might be expected to know what she'd written. He hoped Hardcastle got that. It was liable to be an expensive admission.

"That's it, nothing else?" Shalmerson seemed a bit at ends; he hadn't expected the fish to crawl up onto the bank on its own.

"Ask the neighbors; somebody must've seen me there, right? That's why you invited me down here? See what they say. She went down there on her own, and stuck around after I did. She must've left in her own sweet time."

Now the fish had its own tackle out, and was having a try at casting. Shalmerson looked mildly alarmed. He flipped his notebook closed, cast a quick glance at the other detective and then they both got up from the table.

"Stay here," he said to McCormick. Then he picked up the tape recorder and they departed.

Mark dropped his gaze to the table immediately before him. He hadn't quite expected that he'd be left alone with Hardcastle. The silence that followed the door closing was thick and awkward.

The judge broke first, with a grunt that might have been disgust and a muttered, "When you ask for legal advice, you're supposed to follow it."

"You think they were going to let me go if I didn't talk at all?" Mark said wearily. "I don't think so. At least this way they don't get to imagine any worse reason why I'm not talking, and maybe they'll start to see how crazy that whole damn diary thing is. Hell, do they even know if it's her handwriting?"

He finally risked a sideward glance. The judge was rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I'm just saying, you didn't have to hand it to 'em on a platter. They had a guy who maybe ID'd you off a photo—that's it. We at least had a defense."

"Those hearings, they wouldn't need anything more than that. You know that. Bang, you're back in. Anyway, it's just a technical," Mark said quietly. "A couple months . . . okay, maybe a year. If Teddy takes a fall over this Wilcox thing, it'll be life."

He was half-surprised to hear no more protest from Hardcastle. He hoped to hell the man wasn't giving up on him completely, but from previous experience, Mark guessed the judge thought of him going to jail, maybe even prison, as merely an inconvenience.

"I'll talk to Dalem; I'll do what I can."

It had come out wearily, but with a deeply-rooted sincerity that took McCormick entirely by surprise. He turned in his seat and looked at the older man full-on.

"I know you will. But figure this Wilcox thing out—that's what's important. Let's face it, the technical is a slam dunk, but nobody'd even care about it if they didn't think Teddy was hiding a body."

The door opened again before Hardcastle had a chance to reply. As Mark had expected, this time there was a uniformed officer along with the other two. He already had the cuffs out.

"I've spoken with your parole officer, Mr. Dalem," Shalmerson said. Then there was an almost apologetic half-nod to the judge, and he added, "We're taking you into custody for violation of parole."

"Bail's not usually an option for this, huh?" Mark asked, hoping his last-minute nerves weren't showing too badly.

All he got in response was a 'no' from Shalmerson, reinforced with a single shake of Hardcastle's head. He stood, and turned, and made it as easy as possible for the officer with the cuffs. There was absolutely no sense in doing otherwise.

00000

It was a relatively quiet night and the booking went quickly. It always helps to have a record, Mark concluded. Saves a lot of time on the inconsequentials. An updated photo for his collection, another set of prints—more calluses than last time, though it shouldn't make a difference. He kept his mind detached from all deeper thoughts, which was the best attitude for these circumstances.

There was some small comfort in the familiarity of it, he supposed. He expected he'd go to a holding cell next. It had been a long day. He thought he might even sleep.

Then things got weird. He was used to not knowing the whys and wherefores when in custody, and he'd learned not to ask too many questions—it was easy to get labeled a troublemaker—but a solo transport to Men's Central in the back of a squad-car, after hours, was unique in his experience. He'd expected to make the trip the next morning, conveniently grouped with the rest of the night's unbonded haul in a van, or maybe even a bus.

He spent the trip trying to figure out the implications. The first and most obvious was that it gave things a certain irreversible feeling. This was mostly psychological, but still powerful. From Central it was just a matter of one hearing before he'd be headed back to prison. Mark had no doubt that the next round of questioning would include an invitation to implicate Teddy, maybe in exchange for his parole, or even just a better destination than San Quentin.

He slumped down in the seat. He wished he could run all these guesses past Hardcastle, even if he had to listen to a few 'I told you so's' in exchange. As it was, it could take a while for the judge to find him. That might have been part of the idea behind his midnight move as well.

He sighed almost inaudibly. To the guy in the front seat, he was undoubtedly just a chore, complete with paperwork.

From weird, to weirder still. He was processed in at Central, but not with their usual plodding inefficiency. Going from point A to point B in the Los Angeles jail system almost always involved a fair amount of time sitting on benches.

This time around he might have had reservations at the Sahara, except he was still in handcuffs and there was no need to tip the bellhop because he had no luggage, not even much in the manila envelope—he'd given his watch, medal and wallet to Hardcastle for safekeeping.

He was in a cell again before he could even begin to puzzle out what was going on. It was one of the smaller ones—two bunks, four beds total. And despite the purported overcrowding of jails everywhere, this one so far only held one other inmate. Mark rubbed his wrists for a moment, then took a seat on the bunk opposite the one where the other man was lying, face away.

It hadn't taken him all that long to do the puzzling, not once he saw this set-up. The only question was, did he know the guy? That would be a nice touch, he thought, but they hadn't had a whole lot of time to arrange things. Dalem might've been a help with that, but somehow he didn't think Dalem was the sort who went for this kind of shenanigans.

The guy on the other bunk turned, and stretched, and acted the part of just-waking-up fairly decently, despite the fact that the door had clanged shut in an unignorable way a full two minutes earlier. Mark let out a weary sigh. He considered lying down and refusing to play, but he almost wanted to hear the guy's pitch. It would be useful to know what tack the other team was taking on this.

He knew him. He smiled. Rory Ubleski, Clarkville, class of '79.

"Hey, Rory, small world."

Ubleski looked astonished. He even managed a brief moment of confusion, seeing a familiar but unexpected face. Mark decided whatever they were paying him, it wasn't enough.

"Skid?"

"In the flesh. You back in, too?"

Rory nodded glumly. That part probably wasn't a stretch. "Burglary," he said grimly. "How 'bout you?"

So it would begin. Nice, easy factual questions at first, if Rory had a lick of sense. Mark obliged him with a grudging, "Just a parole beef. One of those 'associating' things."

Rory's eyes went a little wider. Maybe they hadn't explained all this to him. He seemed genuinely surprised. Either that or he was a better actor than Mark remembered.

"Uh-huh," he continued on, "guy named Teddy Hollins. You know him?"

Ubleski mouthed the name silently, as if trying to remember. There was a small glimmer and nod. This didn't seem like part of the act, either. "Yeah, I met him, skinny guy, a little goofy. _He's_ the one you were associatin' with?"

Mark smiled and shrugged. "Yeah, but they've got this crazy notion that Teddy killed someone . . . just a notion, not even a body. So, if they can't tag him for it—I mean, no body even—they figured they run up some phony parole violation and hold him on that. The problem is, I'm the other half of that beef."

Ubleski was sitting up now, and a shadow crossed his face. He probably hadn't expected to get the story out without any questions, and now that he had heard it, it was obvious that he hadn't been given all the facts beforehand.

"Teddy _Hollins_?" he repeated.

"Yeah. That's a hoot, huh? But, like I said, they don't even know for sure if the girl is dead. I suppose they'll just keep working on him, maybe put a snitch in with him, see if they can get anything that way. Won't work, though, because Teddy didn't do anything."

He'd seen it, a small sharp twitch in the side of the man's jaw at the mention of the word 'snitch'.

"I suppose they might even try it with me," Mark added. "You never know." He said it calmly, with no hint of tension, but he knew his meaning had gotten across. Rory had stiffened visibly.

The other man said nothing for a moment, even though McCormick's casual comment had constituted fighting words. Mark cocked his head, watching him carefully. He didn't remember Rory as being particularly violent, but he knew he was pushing hard and everyone had a flashpoint.

After a pause Rory finally drawled out, "That's pretty damn rich, coming from you, Skid."

This wasn't the response he'd been expecting. Ubleski wasn't trying to deny anything and there was something almost righteous in his tone.

Mark frowned. "Whaddaya mean?"

"Word is, you hired out as a full-time narc. I didn't believe it when I heard it the first time, but," he shrugged, "heard it from a couple of guys, now. So who the hell are you to complain if somebody else tries to cut a deal?"

There it was, the very best defense there was. Mark felt his mouth open, ready to fire back, and then nothing, absolutely nothing, came out. He closed it again, frowning. Actually, he hoped it came across as a scowl; that would be slightly better than _nothing_. This was getting damn dangerous. He tried to think of any explanation at all in which his current employment situation could be described as anything but what Rory had just called it. He didn't think 'Tonto' would cut it but, at any rate, it would definitely look to most guys like he'd up and left the reservation.

He was left with one slight difference; and he grasped at it.

"The thing is, Teddy didn't do anything. Not this time. Not what they're trying to saddle him with. I don't know if it's just bad luck, or someone's out-and-out trying to frame him. I just know that if the girl is dead, someone else did it."

It seemed like Ubleski was at least listening; he didn't appear very happy about it, though. Mark felt like he at least needed to offer his condolences on a deal gone bad, maybe show some interest.

"What'd Shalmerson offer you to get the goods on me and Teddy?" he asked, trying to maintain a polite, accepting tone about the whole thing.

Rory shrugged then sank forward, elbows on his knees and said, "What'd Hardcase offer you? Avoiding some hard time. Right?"

McCormick didn't reply. This conversation wasn't going anywhere and he didn't want it to descend into a choice between letting himself get slugged, or getting nailed for fighting. He even kept the frown off his face.

Even Ubleski seemed to realize he was pushing a little too hard. He fell silent, too, but it didn't stretch out for very long. He shrugged again and said, "Anyway, who's Shalmerson?"

This time Mark did frown. "He's the detective who's after Teddy. Maybe it was the other one." He paused for a moment, trying to remember the name. He finally came up with it. "Short guy, Rogers."

"Nah," Rory shook his head, "it was Perkins. Know him?"

McCormick knew he'd heard the name, and recently, though he couldn't tag it to a face. He supposed it made sense; he'd only been over at the station for an hour or two. Shalmerson must've sicced someone else on the project of finding a likely prospect to plant in his cell.

Mark half wanted to ask him what he was going to say in the morning. There was a good chance Rory was desperate enough to make something up, though if that were the case, he'd have expected more digging, a few ordinary facts to embellish the lies with. He didn't want to hand any of those over. Instead, he settled himself back, trying to send a signal that the conversation was over. Ubleski seemed to get the message. He sank back onto his own bunk, with a grim expression of failure.

As for himself, it was late and he ought to have been tired enough to sleep. It had been a long day. Instead, he found himself studying the underside of the bunk above him and _listening_. It was never entirely quiet in jail, not in prison, either. He'd forgotten about that, how even with the constant and distant sounds of the ocean, and the occasional and usually expected noise of Hardcastle with a basketball, it was profoundly _peaceful_ at night at the estate.

He picked up the feeling that had been creeping over him from the moment he'd lain down. He held it out, studied it, and shoved it away with disgust. He was homesick, and he thought he'd decided some time back that he would never allow himself to get attached enough to any place to have that problem again, not that he'd believed there'd be much likelihood of the opportunity presenting itself.

But there it was, disgust on top of low-grade misery, and nothing but more of the same to look forward to. It was then that another niggling notion intruded. He vaguely remembered having told Hardcastle to figure things out. He cringed. It wasn't that the judge would need permission from him to pursue the investigation, but he realized he'd more or less given the man _carte blanche_ to go after at least one mobster, and who knew who else. He'd encouraged him, and God knew Hardcase didn't need encouraging.

But how much trouble could he get into overnight? Surely he'd hunt up his soon-to-be _ex_-ex-con in the morning, if only to have another round of 'I told you so's'. He'd try to talk some sense into the guy then, maybe get him to pair up with Frank, at least.

It was on this minor note of self reassurance that he turned over on his side, facing the wall, and finally fell asleep.

00000

They came for Ubleski bright and early. McCormick figured they must've been pretty eager to get the dirt. He flashed a half-hearted smile at the guy. No need to part on bad terms; that wouldn't help matters. He got a mostly flat expression in return, as if Rory hadn't made up his mind about things, or maybe he had and he was feeling a twinge of guilt.

His own summons followed not long after that, earlier than visiting hours. He half expected it would be Dalem, or one of the detectives from the night before, come to have another poke at him. He was prepared to ask for his attorney this time. He hoped his attorney was still willing to represent him.

But instead of one of the interview rooms, he was taken to the processing-out area. He started to open his mouth, wondering if it was some kind of mistake, then he saw Hardcastle on the other side of the barrier, talking to one of the clerks. He was obviously sorting out some paperwork. There hadn't been a bond hearing. He wasn't sure what sort of special dispensations the man was capable of acquiring, but he didn't think there were any that would cover these circumstances.

It didn't matter; he was being signed out, handed his papers, pointed toward the second door, which was buzzed open. He was on the other side, with no further to-do or explanation. He wondered what the hell Ubleski had said.

Then the judge was standing in front of him, obviously giving him a looking over.

"You okay?"

Mark nodded. He saw Hardcastle jerk his chin toward the exit, as if he didn't want to say anything further right there. McCormick nodded again and followed him, still too bemused to feel any real sense of relief. They were all the way to the parking lot, within sight of the truck, before it hit him. His knees felt weak. He cast a quick nervous look over his shoulder toward the looming structure, as though there might still be a chance it was all a mistake.

"Come on," the judge said impatiently, already several steps ahead, almost to the truck.

Mark hurried to catch up, casting him a questioning look. "How—?"

Hardcastle let himself in the driver's side, and reached over to unlock the other. McCormick started to climb in.

"The charges were dropped."

He froze, staring at the judge straight on.

"Dropped," Hardcastle repeated, as if he weren't sure he'd been understood.

Mark unstuck himself and finished getting in. He sat down, frowning.

"What they found in the dumpster yesterday, it was a knife. The lab's been working on it. Found blood. The type matches the stuff in the Wilcox woman's bedroom."

Mark was still frowning. "That was fast. But what's it got to do with me and Teddy?"

He heard the judge heave a heavy breath. "Look, the knife matches a set in Teddy's kitchen."

"Teddy had a matched set of kitchen knives?"

"Yeah, and his prints on this one, at least a partial."

"Okay, so, maybe someone took it from there. Maybe he _lent_ it to her. Have you talked to him about it yet?"

"_Just_ his prints."

"So he stabs her and hides the body but throws the knife in the dumpster right out back? Come _on_,Judge."

"Doesn't matter how stupid it sounds," Hardcastle said gruffly. "It's enough evidence that the DA thinks they can hold Teddy on suspicion of at least assault. It's his very own parole violation, so they don't need you anymore."

"That was fast," Mark said uncertainly.

Hardcastle shrugged.

"So what did Teddy say? I mean, did you talk to him yet?" They'd pulled out onto the street. He looked up again at the looming structure. "I know it's not visiting hours yet, but . . ."

It was slowly dawning on him that Hardcastle was being reticent, and that reticence, in this case, was probably a bad sign.

"It was _too_ fast. I wasn't exactly upper-most on their minds—"

"Well, actually, you were pretty near the top."

"Not getting me out, at any rate. You made some kind of deal, Hardcase, what gives?"

"Listen, you want to go back in there and be a martyr, fine. It's not going to do Teddy any good, not anymore."

"What kinda deal?"

Hardcastle's mouth was set thin. His voice had dropped to a mutter. "The DA thinks they can put a case together against Teddy, even without a body, but they know it'll be a lot tougher with an experienced trial lawyer at the other table—"

"They _can't_ do that," Mark spluttered. "That's—"

"Of course not, and they didn't, not in so many words. But if I were to head back there right now and ask to see Hollins, those charges against you would be reinstated before I got my briefcase open. And the offer they didn't exactly make, they won't make it a second time.

"Anyway, Teddy doesn't need a lawyer right now. What he needs is someone to figure out what the hell is going on here, and I never promised them I wouldn't go digging anywhere else."

Mark knew better than to ask him what he _had_ promised. It was obvious that the man's bluster was a cover for some fairly deep embarrassment. Hardcastle didn't make shady deals; he didn't compromise.

"I'm okay," McCormick said quietly. "_Really_ . . . I can do that." He hitched his thumb back over his shoulder, in the general direction of Men's Central. "I mean, if you need me to."

"What I need you to do," the judge rumbled ominously, "is ride shotgun. Okay?"

Mark frowned for a brief silent moment and then said, "Okay."

He hoped there wasn't too much self-serving relief in it. He really did believe he could be more use to Teddy on the outside, if only to help keep his _eventual_ defense attorney alive. He slumped down a little further in his seat, suddenly feeling it in full. What sleep he'd gotten had been disorganized, with frequent awakenings, and now even the relief was short-lived.

"A snitch really isn't the same as . . . as—"

"As what?" Hardcastle interrupted his mutter impatiently.

"As whatever it is I am . . . What am I?"

He judge glanced to the side. "I thought you said you were Tonto . . . I s'pose that's not a very technical term."

"Neither is 'riding shotgun'," McCormick muttered again.

"Well, 'snitch' isn't, either," Hardcastle replied, after a moment's thought. "That'd be an informant—someone who provides information to the authorities about a crime or criminal—but I suppose a snitch is usually a criminal. Kind of a negative word."

"Yeah, I'd say so." Mark exhaled heavily.

"But that's not what you are, anyway."

"How 'bout when I do those little scams for you and Frank?"

"Those aren't _scams_, they're undercover jobs." Hardcastle frowned. "And an undercover operative is a good guy, not a criminal. You do see the difference here, right?"

Mark hesitated and finally answered. "Yeah. I suppose." He paused again, thinking it had come out a little sullen. He finally added, "But I'm still an ex-con, see, and so some people maybe think what I do goes under the title of snitching."

He noticed the judge's hands were tight on the wheel. There was another sideward look from the older man, some tension in his face. "What the hell brought all this on?" he asked abruptly.

"Don't tell me it didn't occur to you, too." Mark shook his head. "You got me out of there pretty damn quick." He winced. This was dangerous territory. This was getting into ways and means, and even _whys_.

He was right. Hardcastle's voice dropped a notch, to little more than a low grumble. "You didn't really belong in there this time. Like I said, I need you out here."

Mark nodded, very willing to leave it at that. "Anyway," he finally sighed, "they set me up with my very own snitch last night, a guy I knew from inside."

"Quentin?"

"No, Clarkville. Rory Ubleski. Small potatoes. He wasn't that good at it but I suppose he was all they could get on short notice."

"Short is right." Hardcastle was frowning, a puzzled expression. "They had to put that together in a helluva hurry. I wondered why you'd made it all the way to Central, even after Shalmerson musta heard from the lab about the knife."

"Well, they had a guy at the other end setting that up. Perkins. That's what Ubleski said. Maybe they got their wires crossed."

It took a moment before Mark noticed the silence from Hardcastle's side of the conversation. He glanced to his left, then looked again, longer. The man had a very fixed, considering look on his face.

"What?" he finally asked.

"Frank was waiting here when I got home last night. He'd brought me the Cavessi file." The judge squinted down for a moment, as if he were considering the angle of a pool shot. "Izzy Perkins was the arresting officer in that one."

"For Wilcox . . . or Cavessi?"

"Both. It was his baby, start to finish."

Mark stared straight ahead. They were pulling in under the archway to the estate. The feeling of 'glad to be home'—magnified by the alternative—flashed up, but was just as quickly parked behind a whole new set of concerns.

"Perkins is just kibitzing on this one, huh? Why?"

"Don't know, but I'd sure like to find out," the judge said, with the smile of a man who's seen the first glimmer of daylight after a long walk in a dark cave.

"And does Shalmerson even know?"

"That's another real interesting question." Hardcastle was almost grinning now. "I think I'm going to take another look at that file. "You had breakfast yet?"

"Nothing that would actually pass for food."

"Good, you can go ahead and make it then."

00000

He made breakfast—real eggs, real bacon, real butter, and toast, four slices at a time. He knew the judge was making some phone calls, careful ones, no doubt. Nothing to get the DA all stirred up, and he was quietly grateful for that.

By the time it was all ready, and Hardcastle had answered a summons to the kitchen, it was after ten.

"If it makes ya feel any better," the judge said as he sat down, "Frank doesn't want anybody to think he's a snitch, either."

"That's all very right-minded of Lieutenant Harper," Mark said archly, "but at least the guys he'd be offending wouldn't try and knife him in the laundry room." He realized it had come off a little too sober to work as a humorous aside. "But what did he think?"

"He thinks it's pretty strange. He doesn't remember there being anything remarkable about the Cavessi case, but he'll make some inquiries, but they'll have to be discreet—"

"And that means it'll take time."

Hardcastle nodded his reply.

"Does Teddy know about the deal with the DA? You not being his lawyer anymore?"

Hardcastle's face settled into a scowl. "It wasn't exactly a deal, more like an understanding, and, no, it just got made right before you got sprung. Normally that sort of notification gets done by letter, or, if there's time considerations, face to face. I've put in a call to the DA, too, telling them I'd be stopping by to see Teddy later on to withdraw my services."

"You won't be able to explain why to Teddy?"

"Not in so many words. If I explained any of _that_, and it got back to the DA, it'd just make 'em mad, and we still couldn't prove anything."

Mark realized, with an almost invisible shudder, just what it would mean if the DA got mad at this point. He finally said, "At least I can go with this time."

Hardcastle was still scowling.

"Well, why not? I'm with you; it's not a parole violation, and they already know everything."

"You sure you want to be in on this part?"

"I owe him that much."

00000

Hardcastle didn't waste any time, after they'd finished breakfast. Mark wondered if the special dispensation he'd gotten from the DA had some sort of time limit on it, but he suspected that this was all something in the line of penance for the judge. He wasn't the type for putting off his obligations.

No one down at Men's Central seemed surprised to see them back. Hardcastle, as usual, rated an interview room for his business, without even having to request it. Mark found himself fidgeting, unable to sit down at the table. It was only after a sharp, irritated glance from the judge that he took a place along the wall, leaning back slightly, hands fisted into his pockets, chin down. That held for a few moments, and then they both glanced up at the sound of the door.

Teddy, in handcuffs, with escort—it was obvious that he was being treated with the caution awarded to the more dangerous class of felons. There was a slight element of the absurd about it all, but Mark saw that Hardcastle wasn't amused. And in variance from the usual pattern, when the judge conducted a jailhouse interview, the guard showed no sign of leaving.

As for the prisoner, it was a moment before he even looked up far enough to take in Mark's presence. McCormick saw the shuffle to the chair, the slightly vacant expression, how long it took for the man to find a smile, and how quickly it vanished back into flat acceptance.

"You okay, Teddy?" the judge asked.

He got a nod in return and then Teddy, looking straight at Mark, said, "I heard they busted you. I'm sorry, man."

"I'm out," Mark said with a flash of a confident smile. "It's okay."

"I didn't mean to—"

"It's _okay_, Teddy."

"I mean, you're just about the only guy who'd put it on the line for me, you and the judge—"

"Teddy, listen," Hardcastle interrupted, "I know a pretty sharp guy in the P.D.'s office, name's Abernathy. I'm gonna see if he can pick up your case."

Teddy said nothing; his expression stayed neutral and entirely accepting, with a feeling that this was nothing unexpected. He finally nodded and said, "That'll be fine, Judge."

Mark bit down on the reassurances he wanted to make. He didn't know who was planning on questioning the guard later on but, at any rate, Teddy wasn't finished.

"Maybe I did it," he added quietly.

He was rocking just slightly in his seat and his expression had gone even flatter still. The effect was very unlike him. Mark felt his own face draining. He thought he ought to have seen it coming, but he hadn't.

"Teddy—"

"Maybe. I mighta. There's a knife, see. I mighta gotten upset, you know." There wasn't the slightest hint of animation. It was as if he was repeating a lesson that had been drummed into him. "Maybe she was teasing me and I got upset."

Mark shook his head and cast a desperate look at Hardcastle. He was almost relieved to see the older man looked as horrified as he himself felt.

"Not another word," the judge said sharply, and the intensity of the command seem to penetrate even Hollins' fog. Teddy looked up at him, slightly more focused. "Listen," Hardcastle went on, keeping his voice low, but no less intent. "Abernathy, he's from the public defender's office. If anyone wants to talk to you, ask you any more questions, you want your lawyer there first. Okay?"

Teddy frowned. It seemed to take a while for the concept to arrive and longer still for him to finish considering it. He finally nodded doubtfully and repeated the name. "Abernathy." Then he turned back to Mark and said, "I'm sorry. Really I am."

"You didn't kill anybody, Teddy."

The frown on the other man's face was the only reply he got.

"I dunno if I'll be able to get back in here to see you again for a while," Mark said quietly.

This time there was no hesitation before Teddy replied. "Yeah, I understand."

Mark knew he didn't, that Teddy thought this was desertion, pure and simple, and that it was both deserved and expected. He wanted to explain, but he also knew, even without the sharp look Hardcastle had just given him, that the conversation was getting dangerous and it was time to go.

At a nod from the judge, the guard stepped forward. Teddy seemed to have been expecting this, too, and got up, quietly cooperative. He was almost to the door before he turned his head and ducked a nod at the older man. "Thanks, and, like I said, I'm sorry."

Then he was gone, and McCormick slumped against the wall with a long exhalation of breath. Neither one of them said anything else for the moment. Hardcastle jerked his chin toward the other door and Mark followed him out.

00000

In the ten minutes it took them to get back to the truck, neither man said a word. It was Mark who finally broke the silence, as they climbed inside, and he began hesitantly.

"He used to tell people he was a pathological liar, you know."

"Yeah, I heard him say that one time."

"Maybe that's what some shrink told him, I dunno." Mark shrugged and then shook his head once. "But I think what it is, is that he has a lot of trouble telling the difference between what's real and what's not."

He looked to the side for a moment. Hardcastle was staring out the windshield. He hadn't started the truck yet. He just sat there. He finally nodded.

"I dunno," Mark said, "he's not a bad guy, you know that? He's just Teddy. We were sitting there one night, and we tried to figure out how many times he'd been in the joint. He'd lost count."

"Six, counting juvie," the judge said flatly and then, at a look from McCormick, added, "I checked his file."

"And I think maybe a couple of those times it might've been because he was handy, and it was pretty easy to run him in for something."

There was no hurried disagreement from the older man. Mark sighed.

"And I don't think he had any family. None he ever mentioned."

"Nothing in the file," Hardcastle said grimly. "Institutional upbringing."

"Well," Mark said, "I'm not a shrink, but Teddy was a guy who learned pretty early on that the way not to get beat up was to not make the guys who are talking to you angry, to say what they want to hear."

"They're not beating a confession out of him," Hardcastle huffed defensively.

"Don't have to anymore," Mark said. "He's well-trained."

"Does he believe what he's saying?"

"Maybe not yet, not completely, but he will soon. They'll feed him the details and he'll confess."

"If he hasn't already," Hardcastle grumbled.

Mark felt a quiver of worry. "He hasn't yet; you would have heard, right?"

"I'm not exactly in the loop here, kiddo."

"No," Mark shook his head. "I don't think he's quite to the confessing stage yet. But you gotta get that Abernathy guy over there. He's good, right? Make sure he understands what Teddy's like."

Hardcastle nodded again, to both suggestions.

00000

They'd driven home in near silence. Mark resisted the urge to repeat himself. It would have just been nagging out of having nothing else to do, and he thought it was better to leave the judge to think in peace.

And he must have been thinking. As soon as he'd pulled into the drive and parked, Hardcastle was out, heading for the house, then probably the den and the phone. Mark trailed not far behind, pausing only a moment between the car and the door, taking it all in, momentarily astonished again that what felt like so long had only been an overnight absence.

He caught up with the older man where he'd expected to find him, only the look on Hardcastle's face as he punched the reset button on the answering machine suggested more bad news.

"Frank," he said abruptly. "He says they found a body—"

Mark sank into the chair that was behind him, wanting to know more, _now_, but not wanting to know any of it, all at the same time. It must have shown on his face because the judge went on almost without a pause. "He said he was trying to get the details. He musta just heard. He didn't know much more than that they're pretty sure it's the Wilcox woman, and she'd been dead for a day or two."

"Stabbed?"

The judge nodded. "A dumpster behind a factory that's been out of business for a while, a couple miles from the apartment. Mighta gone a while without being noticed, but someone phoned it in. An anonymous call."

Mark laid his head back against the chair and stared up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and leaned forward again, all sudden, certain intensity.

"They'll be back at Teddy as soon as they've got a positive ID on the body. You need to call that guy at the public defender's office, get him on it."

"They'll probably want to have another round with you, too."

"Well," Mark sank back into the chair again, "you're still _my_ lawyer, aren't you?"

"Yeah, they didn't say anything about _that_ being one of the conditions. Anyway, I don't think they're all that interested in you any more, except as a potential witness for or against Teddy."

As if to punctuate the thought, the phone rang again. Mark's eyes were drawn sharply to it, but not so fast that he missed the slight twitch of Hardcastle's hand. The judge reached for the receiver and said hello almost warily.

"Hey, Frank," his shoulder's slumped slightly in visible relief. "Yeah, got it. We just got home."

Mark thought no doubt Frank already knew from where. A few more yeses, and Hardcastle was gesturing for the note pad and a pen. Mark got them and slid them over. A little chicken-scratching, then a good-bye and he was hanging up.

The judge frowned down at the sheet in silence long enough to provoke a 'What?' from McCormick.

"Too late for Abernathy, looks like. Frank says he just dropped by Shalmerson's office and the guy was crowing. Said they lifted printed the corpse and ran 'em about an hour ago. It's Wilcox. He's heading over to Bauchet Street to share the good news with Hollins. What'dya think the odds are that Teddy'll dummy up?"

"Once they get working on him? But they have their body now; all deals are off between you and the DA." Mark shook his head and looked down at this watch. "_You_ could get down there and head off a confession."

He looked up, pinning the man with a sharp gaze. He ignored the wince that must've been triggered by his reference to a 'deal'. It had been an absolutely calculated remark. He knew Hardcastle was still chafed by what he'd been forced to agree to that morning. He watched him teeter on the brink of a decision, and come down on the right side, landing four-square and solid.

"You're damn straight," the judge said, already turning toward the door.

Mark was on his feet as well.

"Wait a minute," Hardcastle looked back at him, "you're staying here."

"_Why_?"

The judge's eyebrows went up. "'Cause even though I think the deal's off, _they_ might not think so. I don't want to bring them a damn _hostage_."

Mark hesitated. Any time spent arguing now was time they didn't have to spare, and him being along this time was purely a symbolic gesture. What Teddy needed now was a lawyer who could shake some sense into him.

"Okay, just _go_," he said in frustrated impatience, and Hardcastle was already nearly to the front door before he added, "and _call_ me, okay? Lemme know what's happening."

He heard a half-assenting grunt from the judge and then he was gone, with the sound of the 'Vette heading out the side drive a moment later, a clear indication that Hardcastle intended to shave some minutes off the trip, maybe even bend the speed limit to the law of flagrant necessity.

Mark sat down, feeling equal parts weary and nervous, unused to being left to sit and wait. He was trying to put it all together, to stop thinking from crisis to crisis for a moment, step back, and look at the whole picture, when the phone rang again.

He lunged for it, saying 'Yeah?' instead of hello and fully expecting to hear Frank on the other end; it was too soon to be Hardcastle. A woman's voice, tight and nervous with a hint of a drawl, took him completely by surprise.

"Judge Hardcastle?" The caller was obviously confused as well. She clearly had been expecting a more formal greeting in an older voice.

"No, he's out," Mark said impatiently.

The 'oh' was more anxious still, and followed by a nervous pause and then, "Do you know where I can reach him? It's important."

It wasn't anyone Mark recognized, not that he knew even half the people who knew the judge, but he had a sudden inkling, a brief flash of intuition, that the drawl went with a name he'd heard only the day before.

"You're calling about Patty Wilcox?" he asked, trying to keep his tone even and not too eager.

The quick, jerking sob, cut short, was answer enough. Then, "I really need to talk to Hardcastle."

"There's a lieutenant, his name is Harp—"

"No, no cops." She'd cut him off sharply, with surprising intensity.

He waited a moment and then, when she said nothing more, he jumped back in, "Me, then, I'm not a cop. I work with the judge. My name is McCormick."

"You're the friend of that guy, Hollins."

"Yeah," Mark said, hoping it was the right answer.

"I told her, I told her it was a bad idea."

Mark lost his grip on his patience and said "What was?" It came out a little more interrogatively than he'd wanted.

Silence again from the other end. He half expected a click would follow and he was trying to think of something non-threatening to stave that off. He finally settled for God's honest truth.

"Talk to me . . . please? You sound like you're in trouble. Just tell me what the hell's going on."

"No," she said, another half-sob and then, "not on the phone. Stuff can be tapped. I don't want to wind up like her."

"I'll meet you. Tell me where you are."

More silence, and then, finally, when he'd almost given up hope, out came the address, half-whispered. He grabbed the same pad Hardcastle had used and scribbled it down. He didn't get a chance to ask anymore questions, but at least there was a terse 'good-bye' preceding the click.

He'd barely hung up on his own end before he had the receiver back again, cradled between his shoulder and his ear, while he punched in Frank's familiar number. Five rings and he heard it transfer, probably to the secretary's desk. A vaguely familiar voice answered. He asked, in a very calm, very flat tone, for Lieutenant Harper. "Not in" he was informed. "Would you like to leave a message?"

He'd caught it from her, the soft-voiced, nervous woman with the drawl, and it was a bad case of flaming paranoia. It didn't matter that he recognized it for what it was. He'd be leaving no messages to lie around on who knew what police desk, until he knew what the hell was going on that had that woman so scared.

He said, "No, thanks," and hung up. Hardcastle couldn't be back to Men's Central yet, and, even if he was, Mark didn't want to distract him from the matter at hand. He tore the top sheet off the pad, then recopied the address and added a short note stating what was up. He squinted at it when he was done. It was a little light in the factual information department but, with any luck, he'd be back with the whole story before the note could be read.

00000

The address was a second-floor apartment in a building not quite as down-at-the-heels as the one that Teddy and his alleged murder victim had occupied. It had a buzzer system on the foyer door. Mark saw the name inked in on a slip of paper next to the apartment number—R. Ebbins.

Rita Mae, he remembered the name of Patty Wilcox's friend, the woman who had originally phoned in the missing person's report. His finger paused for a moment, just over the button. The alleged murderer's ex-cellmate visiting a witness might look a bit suspicious to the casual observer, but she had information, that much was clear, and it wasn't anything she wanted to tell the cops. He took a breath and pushed the button.

There was a buzzing sound and a snap of the latch a moment later. He pushed the foyer door open, stepped in and announced himself—no greeting in return but some distant sounds from upstairs and as he mounted further up the steps he could see the door was ajar. That was the first quiver of misgiving, but he got the rest of the way there on the hope that the truth would be worth it.

By the time he saw the body on the floor it was too late to change his mind.

The man with the gun was gesturing him in with an unspoken warning to silence. The gun had a very professional looking suppressor attached to it and Mark had no doubt that even in digs a step up from Teddy's, the thump on the floor from the last body hadn't sent the downstairs neighbors lunging for the phone.

He stepped in, carefully avoiding the streaks of blood where the woman had apparently been dragged back a short distance from the door. The knife was out of her chest. It looked like something from a kitchen set, a filleting blade. He couldn't take his eyes off it, even though the real hazard was the gun, off to his right now, and the man who was holding it.

"Take the knife."

Mark almost jumped at the sound of the man's voice. He knew where this was going. The guy with the gun was wearing latex gloves, the kind cops wear when handling evidence. Mark dragged his eyes away from the woman and the blade, long enough to take that fact in, along with the man's calm, almost _removed_ bearing. He was someone who was comfortable in the presence of violent death.

"You're Perkins, huh?" McCormick asked, not even sure if it was a bad tactical move.

All he got in return was a blink and a quick gesture from the hand holding the gun—motioning him to the knife again.

If he didn't, he'd be shot, that was the implication. And after that his prints would wind up on the knife anyway. He reached for it reluctantly, putting off the inevitable for a few more seconds.

He lifted it, briefly considered the odds of knife versus gun, and then put it back down carefully. He got a nod of approval from the man who was probably Izzy Perkins, and then another gesture from the gun hand.

Astonishingly, he hadn't been shot trying to resist arrest yet. It would have made more sense to do that while he had the knife in his hand, to let it be flung naturally to the side at the moment of impact. He frowned. He almost hated to ask, lest the idea of not yet having been shot sound even more absurd out loud.

"You're going to _arrest_ me?" He couldn't help it; it came out freighted with disbelief.

The man smiled. "You have the right to remain silent . . ."

Mark felt almost lightheaded with relief, and the astonishing notion that being arrested for murder was, at this point, the least-bad possibility. At least now he had a trajectory on the enemy.

"_Perkins_, right?" he tried to interrupt the Miranda recital. The detective plugged on, finishing up with the usual question.

"Yeah," Mark said, finding a little belligerence now that the moment of terror had receded slightly, "I understand. I'm being framed for murder and anything I say 'can and will' make me look like a desperate idiot."

Perkins—_it had to be Perkins_—almost twitched a smile at that one. He stepped back to the table in the hall where the phone rested. He wasn't dialing 911, but the longer number was obviously from memory.

The sirens followed only a moment or two later, approaching inexorably. Again the swiftness of the thing was amazing. Of course he'd never been arrested for murder before; maybe this was the way it always worked. As the back-up arrived, Perkins smoothly took charge of the operation, keeping everyone well back from the immediate vicinity of the body, having the cuffs applied by a very young and otherwise useless-looking uniformed officer.

"He's been Mirandized," Perkins said. "He's a parolee. This case is probably linked to another one that's under investigation," he added solemnly. "I want to get him booked and available for questioning as soon as possible."

The uniformed officer was nodding almost mechanically, and regarding McCormick as if he were a particularly vicious specimen in need of careful handling. Mark thought smiling reassuringly probably wouldn't be appropriate. He kept his expression neutral. Truth was, he was almost totally occupied with trying to figure out what he'd say to Hardcastle. He winced at this thought. It might have come across as a sneer, he supposed. He got a shove in the direction of the door.

"None of that," Perkins said stiffly. The officer looked abashed. "I better ride along with you," the detective added.

Nothing more was said until he was properly situated in the back seat of the squad car. Perkins gave the officer directions. It was neither the closest place, nor Men's Central. Mark knew better than to ask any questions, and so did the uniformed guy, apparently.

It was a crowded, bustling station with which McCormick was unfamiliar. Perkins knew his way around, though. Mark was escorted to a holding cell, down at the end of a quieter corridor. It was already occupied by three other guys. Big guys—the narrow-eyed kind who looked as if one job, more or less, wouldn't make a noticeable difference on their rap sheets.

McCormick stood there as the door was unlocked. It felt totally wrong and he suspected it was Perkin's doing, but it could be just standard operating procedure for this station. There was a possibility that there'd be nothing more than a little routine intimidation, unless, of course, he made a fuss now, and demanded his phone call.

Then what? Hardcastle wouldn't be home yet. And if he attempted to call Frank again, the word would be back here almost as fast as he was, and the word would be _snitch. _He'd made up his mind almost before the door was unlocked.

He stepped through nonchalantly, hoping his expression didn't match his inner state. And the moment the door clanged shut behind him, he knew he'd made another mistake.

They didn't bother to introduce themselves, but there was obviously teamwork involved. One stepped over to the door, partly to keep watch and partly to obscure the view. One of the other two, the larger—and he had five inches and forty pounds on McCormick—moved in with lightening rapidity. It might still be just intimidation, but the first thing was a stranglehold, and it was applied convincingly. The third one might almost have been a disinterested bystander, but more likely he was the guy in charge.

He stepped in, somehow more naturally menacing than the guy who was slowly cutting off his air supply. Mark could barely make out the words for the buzzing in his ears.

". . . confession . . . you'll sign it. You understand?"

He couldn't nod. He tried to substitute a vertical movement of his eyes. He wasn't even sure what he was agreeing to but the pressure slacked off almost immeasurably. Almost instantly there was a quick, hard punch to his gut that forced out what little air he'd been able to take in.

The voice repeated, a little louder, "I said, do you _understand_?"

This time he croaked out a "Yeah".

"Good." Another punch, another quick choke-hold to prevent any involuntary noise. The man continued in a lecturing tone, punctuated by more blows. The gist of it was that he was to cooperate with the authorities and admit in writing to whatever they told him. The consequences for backsliding were described in detail. The lecturer flashed a hand sign that indicated the contract could be readily enforced just about anywhere that was behind bars.

He'd lost track of the times he tried to agree; apparently the full effect had been bought and paid for and these guys were workmanlike. By the time they were done, the only thing keeping him on his feet was the guy behind him and when he was finally released he went down hard.

That'd be the official explanation for any visible marks—'tripped in the holding area'. The pressure on his neck had been carefully distributed to get the job done without any incriminating evidence. He felt a hard nudge from somebody's boot but he was in no hurry to get up, just in case they'd thought of some codicils to the contract that still needed to be discussed.

No, they were just hauling him up onto the cot in an almost laughable gesture of concern. Maybe the guy in charge had finally realized they'd taken this one to the edge. Someone was slapping his face, just hard enough to get his attention.

"What?" he said morosely. "I already said 'yeah'."

Somebody chuckled. Somebody said, "Just don't forget. Next time we'll lean a little."

There were noises outside in the hallway—footsteps. He was being sat up. He opened his eyes blearily, watched everything spin slowly to a halt, tried to clear the thickness in his throat, then muttered, "I won't forget."

A different uniformed guy, and he was being escorted to an interview room. Perkins was there, Rogers, too. Mark shuffled in and took a seat. He caught the frown on Rogers' face, but Perkins looked serenely confident.

"You were read your rights?" Rogers said. "You understand them?"

Mark nodded.

"You want to tell us what happened today in Rita Mae Ebbin's apartment?" Rogers asked. There was a hint of doubt to his voice but, then, Mark figured he'd already heard him confess once, why should a second time be so surprising?

He sighed. He didn't think he should be expected to make it up out of whole cloth. After all, he might get something wrong and it wouldn't be his fault.

Perkins seemed to sense his difficulty and jumped in smoothly. "You were in the front hallway of her apartment, right?"

Mark nodded.

"You'll have to answer yes or no." Perkins pointed to a tape recorder.

"Yes," Mark said. It had come out sounding sullen and dull.

"You had a knife. It was from her kitchen?"

Mark hesitated on that one. He supposed it was. He finally said. "I think so."

Perkins looked irritated. Rogers jumped on it. "You don't know where you got it?"

"Yeah, the kitchen," Mark said. Once the first lie was agreed to, the rest came easier. He felt slow, and stupid, and everything hurt, but he was still alive, and if he could stay that way for just another hour or two, no matter how deep a hole he dug himself, there was still some chance that the judge could pull him out.

But it didn't take an hour. Once Perkins had established the narrative, and a rhythm to the suggestions, the questions, and the short answers he wanted, the whole thing took less than twenty minutes.

Mark sat there, feeling stunned, once he realized the process had stopped. He hoped they weren't expecting him to write it all out. He couldn't even remember most of it. The part about the knife, about putting it in her chest, that was it, that was the gist of it. He'd said he'd done that. He could barely see the light from this far down in the hole he'd put himself in.

They took the tape recorder away, or Rogers did. Perkins stayed there with him, an omnipresent reminder of the importance of continued good behavior. It couldn't have been much longer than another fifteen minutes before Rogers returned, papers in hand.

"Read it through and sign it," he said flatly.

Mark looked at the words, which were having an unfortunate tendency to blur and run together. He had a moment of hesitation brought up short by Perkins, growling slightly as he said, "Anything there you want to change?"

McCormick suppressed a brief urge to tear the thing into pieces and throw it in the man's face. They'd probably call that assaulting an officer and they'd find him a cell with five or six guys.

He signed, slowly and almost biting on his tongue to keep the pen steady.

Perkins picked the papers up, handed them over to two other officers who'd been brought in for witnessing. Then Mark felt himself being hauled up on his feet again. But the smile on Perkins' face as he started to turn away was chillingly final, as though he'd not only won a battle, but the whole damn war.

Mark was out in the hallway before it all became absolutely obvious. _Thinking from crisis to crisis._ Maybe they'd cut off his oxygen a little longer than he'd realized. He turned, pulling back just slightly against the grip of his escorting officer.

"I want to make a phone call. I haven't made one yet." He tried not to sound panicky. He was willing to do anything at this point to avoid being put back in that cell.

The officer alongside him looked put out, as if he wasn't sure if that rule applied to guys who'd already signed a confession. It appeared for a moment like he might continue on, putting him back in the cell temporarily while he checked with the desk sergeant. Mark stiffened slightly. He preferred not to get beat up on this side of the bars as well, but he knew it for a sudden, irrefutable fact—if he let them put him back on the other side of that door, he was a dead man.

"A call," he said again firmly. He avoided saying 'It's my right.' No need to aggravate anyone by telling them something they already knew.

A moment of hesitation, with the whole thing balancing on a point and him trying to figure out what to do next if they said 'no' or even 'later,' but, instead, the guy finally just shrugged, a shining moment of bureaucratic indifference that left McCormick ready to sob with relief. It was only the shortest of reprieves but it was always possible he'd actually reach someone.

He'd made up his mind, as he was brought to the phone, that Frank was his most likely bet. No appellation of 'snitch' would hold a candle to the certainty that Perkins wanted him to die before he could contradict his confession. He dialed slowly, methodically, hoping a few seconds delay would increase the chances that the man was back in his office.

The five rings, then the front desk picking up again and an unfamiliar and disinterested voice was telling him that Lieutenant Harper was out and offering to take a message. Mark smiled grimly. Sometimes the cards were stacked. He looked up at the clock on the wall of the station room. It was ten minutes after eleven.

He gave his name, and the time, and where he was calling from. He wasn't sure how far he could go without being labeled a crackpot caller, and the half-written note tossed down into the wastebasket. He had the feeling now that he was making his statement; that help, when it came, would come too late, and what he said now, if it could be gotten out and put down on paper, would be the only evidence there'd be against Perkins. And, most of all, Hardcastle would know. He wouldn't have to wonder about all that crap in the confession.

He started talking, slowly but succinctly, trying to keep his voice undeniably rational. He hadn't gotten very far in his accusations and predictions before the officer sitting at the desk next to him, who'd been doing some paperwork and mostly ignoring everything else, looked up in disgust.

"That's enough of that—who the hell are you talking to?"

It didn't matter. Mark had already heard an equally disgusted single word from the other end of the line. He thought if it hadn't been so noisy in the station he would have been able to hear the page being torn from the notepad and crumpled up. The line went dead.

Things were desperate, but not hopeless. He already had his next strategy lined up, though he waited until he was away from the guy at the desk.

"I have something else I need to tell Detective Rogers," he said abruptly, as they led him back down the hall. "It's important."

The officer frowned at him as if he were having trouble picturing what could trump a murder confession. "I think he's gone. You can tell him later. The DA'll probably wanna see you."

They were only a few feet from the cell door. Mark balked, but already knew he had miscalculated. He couldn't resist enough at this point to be injured. They'd just manhandle him into the cell and shut the door. Maybe they'd leave the cuffs on if he made enough of a nuisance of himself. Even screaming would just guarantee that any noise he had an opportunity to make from the other side of the door would be ignored.

It was possible he was wrong about Perkins' plan. The worst he might be looking at would be the hopelessly deep mire of a signed confession and a murder weapon with his fingerprints on it. But when the cuffs were removed and the door opened, he required a stiff push from behind before he half-stumbled through. And as it closed behind him, the look on the face of the guy who had given him the first lecture was not encouraging.

"Done already?" the ringleader said with a sharklike grin.

The other two had fanned out. No one made a move yet, and Mark supposed it was to give the guy on the other side of the door a chance to walk away. He was certain that any quick moves or noise on his part would only hasten things.

The big guy, the one who was good at the chokehold, was moving back on his left. Mark turned slightly, trying to evade him, and almost immediately realized it had been a feint and the real hazard was the guy in charge and the one who quickly grabbed him from behind.

It wasn't going to be anything as obvious as a beating or suffixation this time, though he wondered how Perkins planned to smuggle the syringe back out of the cell again. Probably in the excitement when his body was discovered.

His temporary cellmates wouldn't have noticed anything, of course. 'Musta died in his sleep.' And everyone on the other side of that door would cover their asses as best they could. 'He was acting crazy out by the phone.' 'Must've been on something. PCP. That's why he went nuts and cut up that woman.'

He'd packed a whole lot of regretful thought into very few seconds as he felt the ringleader probing for a vein while the other two guys tried to control the thrashing. He got halfway loose for one critical second and bellowed loud enough that he thought someone would have to come back, if only to tell him to shut up and, yes, a moment later he heard angry shouting and footsteps, but the two guys who were holding him had gotten their grip again and this time they were ready to do whatever it took to keep him silent.

Then, suddenly, there was no one holding him at all, and just like the last time his legs collapsed out from under him. The door opened, more shouting, way too many people in too small a place. Not much of a struggle, which was good, because he was underfoot.

And he was looking up at Hardcastle, who was looking down, concerned. "You okay?"

"The damn nick of time again," he muttered hoarsely. Then he looked down at his right arm. "See anything?"

Hardcastle crouched, puzzlement on his face. "What'd they do?

"Careful." He glanced over at the now restrained pack of goons. "The one guy has a needle. I dunno, something in a syringe. That one." He pointed to the ringleader.

The judge grabbed the pointing arm, looking intently. Then he straightened up a little, with an obvious exhalation of relief. "Musta missed."

"Yeah," Mark said, "I'm not dead."

Someone spotted the syringe on the floor under one of the bunks, still in one piece, still full. It was retrieved with elaborate, fingerprint-sparing care by one of the local officers, as if to make up for it being there in the first place.

His three assailants were hauled out. Harper was there, looking angry, and Shalmerson, appearing perturbed.

The judge was still giving him a fairly close inspection. "Can you get up?"

Mark gave that a moment's thought and finally nodded yes but accepted a hand under the elbow from the older man. Almost as soon as he was upright he started to sit again, on the bunk.

"Uh-uh," Hardcastle said with some distaste. "Not in here. Anyway, it's a crime scene."

"Well," Mark halted his downward slump and leaned a little harder, "you better check with the local guys. You got some stuff to straighten out, but I swear it was coerced."

"Yeah," Hardcastle jerked his chin toward Rogers, standing just outside the doorway frowning, "that's what he thought. He didn't have the good sense to take you into protective custody, then and there, but at least he dropped a dime to Shalmerson to run it by him. That's how I found out . . . that and what your friend Rory told us."

"Ubleski ratted on Perkins?" Mark allowed himself to be steered slowly through the door and down the hallway.

"Yeah," Harper said dryly. "Perkins had lined him up even before Shalmerson got an ID on you. He started working on that as soon as he saw Milt sniffing around the case, put two and two together pretty fast. What he didn't know was that you and Rory already knew each other. Seems like you know every ex-con in the State of California."

Mark rolled his eyes.

"Ubleski folded on Perkins as soon as we started questioning him. Turns out Perkins thought Hardcastle was running a sting on him."

"For what?"

"On account of he set up the arrest of Vic Cavessi so he could put him away and keep the profits from a big stash of drugs that Vic had left with Patty Wilcox." Hardcastle shook his head. "He and Wilcox split the take."

Mark stopped where he was. "Then who killed her, and why'd they frame Teddy?"

Hardcastle nudged him along. They didn't go far, though. He must have looked like he needed to sit down. Harper opened the door to the first interview room and pulled over a chair for him. Shalmerson stepped in behind them, with Rogers slouching in after him like a guy who wanted to stay in the background for a while.

The judge pulled up a chair of his own and sat down wearily. Mark waited. He knew the part where Hardcastle explained how the system had gotten totally derailed wasn't going to be much fun for the old donkey, so he was willing to be patient.

"See," Hardcastle finally said, "it was like this . . . we think. Manny knew something was up. He was leaning on Wilcox . . . threatening her, most likely, to try and get her to roll over on Perkins. That's just a guess. Meanwhile, Perkins was telling her he'd nail her if she so much as thought about turning him in or dealing with Manny. She was between a rock and a hard place.

"Looks like she decided to stage her own death, take her share of the profits, and get out from under both the guys she was afraid of."

"So, she apartment shopped until she found a building with a resident patsy," Mark said bitterly.

"That's about it. The planted knife, the blood in the apartment, the diary, that was all her and Rita Mae's doing. But Perkins was suspicious, especially after he realized I was Teddy's lawyer. He thought maybe the whole thing was a setup, that it was some kind of weird sting, or at least an attempt to cover up moving Wilcox to a safe house in anticipation of her testifying against him. He thought we were putting you into position to meet Vic. He even thought Manny might be in on it. So he engineered your evening with Rory, in an attempt to find out what the hell we were up to."

"And he killed her?"

"Looks like it. She must've slipped up. Maybe she tried to touch base with Rita Mae. Perkins knew all her old haunts. He must've gotten her to talk. Once he knew what was what, he killed her. Then he went after the woman who knew the whole thing was a scam, the one who could have cleared Teddy and sent everyone looking for a different killer."

"He was already there with her when Rita Mae called the estate," Mark said quietly. The woman's nervousness now took on a different shade of meaning. "He must've made her call. He knew you'd hightail it over to Men's Central as soon as you heard the body'd been found, and he knew I was out of jail and I'd be there."

"Then what happened?" the judge asked. Mark knew he was trying not to make it sound like an interrogation, but the tape recorder was back. Rogers had placed it on the table. Mark took a breath, and let it out again. He talked to Hardcastle at first, and when that got too hard he kept his eyes on Frank.

But no one interrupted him, and he told it all.

00000

Afterwards, Shalmerson and Rogers departed with the tape recorder. This time he didn't have the awkwardness of being left alone with the judge—Hardcastle had accompanied them. Harper stayed behind but didn't ask any annoying questions like 'Why the hell did you keep digging that hole?' Instead, he got a pat on the arm. Mark figured it was supposed to be reassuring, without Frank having to actually lie.

He gave up worrying about it. Hardcastle was in charge of that now. He crossed his arms in front of him on the table and put his head down. He might have even fallen asleep. It seemed that way when he startled by another hand, this time on his shoulder, and the judge saying, "Okay, kiddo, let's go."

He blinked, straightened up too quickly, regretted that, and said, "Where?"

"You? _Home_."

The judge had a file tucked under one arm and handed Mark the manila envelope that contained his few things.

"I signed for it," he said briefly.

Shalmerson had apparently departed. Rogers was talking to some serious-looking guys in a corner of the squad room. Mark wandered along behind Hardcastle, trying to fasten his watch strap as he walked. No one was giving him more than a glance. It was amazing.

His bemusement lasted as far as the front door. On the steps outside he pulled up short and said, "What about Teddy?"

"I'll go talk to the DA after I drop you off," Hardcastle said.

"Uh-uh," Mark shook his head, "I'm going with."

To the judge's credit, he must've recognized an unwinnable argument. He merely sighed and nodded.

00000

He was left in the waiting area at the DA's office. There was a couch, and he was tempted to make use of it, but he was aware that the day's activities had left him looking like a vagrant. There were even some splotches of blood on his sleeve—Rita Mae's, no doubt. He didn't want to get tossed out by the security guys before Hardcastle got back. He sat there, fielding curious stares from passers-by and trying to look fully domesticated.

He saw several people go in and come out, and he supposed phone calls had to be made, but it didn't take all that long. When Hardcastle re-emerged there was no long moment of uncertainty; he was smiling, albeit a bit grimly as befit his irritation over the whole thing. Of course a smile might not indicate immediate release. People like the judge could be astonishingly dense about what constituted a priority, Mark thought.

"The charges were dropped?"

Hardcastle nodded.

"Everything, the parole violation, too?"

"The whole shebang," the judge said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

"Okay, we're all set, then. You've got all the papers, nothing left to get signed? We don't have to hunt up a judge or anything like that?" Mark heard himself; he knew it sounded a little off, a little pressured. "We can just go get him now?"

"Now, yeah," Hardcastle replied. It was calm, but he was heading for the door with a brisk step. Mark thought maybe he did understand after all.

00000

Mark stuck close to Hardcastle. It was like following in the path of an icebreaker—explanations given, curt and pre-emptive, and people responding to the tone probably without understanding. This was simply a guy who needed to be pushed up the chain of command. Once that was accomplished, things went smoothly.

Still, it was evening by the time they had everything straightened out, and the processing area was quiet. Mark sat slumped in the last in the row of bolted-down chairs. He'd given up on pacing fifteen minutes earlier. Hardcastle was rereading the file he'd had tucked under his arm when they'd left the station. His scowl looked to become permanent but Mark was still gazing in his direction when a sound of inner doors opening caught them both unawares. Hardcastle glanced up and the scowl disappeared into a quick flash of a satisfied smile.

Mark looked over his shoulder. It was Teddy, wearing a shirt that had obviously not been folded properly before they'd shoved it in the bin—tails not tucked in, shoe-laces still not retied. He was clutching his envelope as though he thought somebody might try to take it away from him again.

McCormick got to his feet and waited for him to be buzzed through. Even then he just stood there, smiling. He knew better than to crowd the man. It was Hardcastle who spoke first.

"All set?" he asked simply, and then, at Teddy's bemused nod, "Come on. We're going home."

They were almost to the truck before Hollins spoke.

"They dropped the charges, all of them?"

"Everything," Mark said firmly.

"I didn't do it." Teddy spoke with an air of uncertainty from someplace that seemed a little foggy.

"No," Mark frowned, then tried to soften the expression, "of course not."

"But . . . she's still dead." There was none of his usual hurried rush of words.

Mark sighed. He wanted to explain but he doubted that Teddy was in a position to process much information right now. _They'd had him in a chokehold, too._

"Yeah, she's dead; her friend, Rita Mae, too. They were both killed by somebody you don't know. He's under arrest."

"I liked her. Really."

"She tried to frame you, Teddy. She was going to let you swing for it."

"But she's dead."

Mark shrugged a little hopelessly. "Look, you're tired. _I'm _tired. We're taking you back to Gulls' Way." He glanced up at the judge and saw no disagreement. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

00000

As was often the case, it seemed that even though he was physically exhausted, and could have slept anywhere, when anywhere finally arrived in the form of a bed, sleep eluded him. True, it wasn't all that late, but he heard Teddy snoring softly, from down below on the made-up couch.

He got up, quietly put his clothes back on, and let himself out the door, intending to head down to the beach—to walk out the stiffness, mind and body. Instead he saw the light still on in the den. He hesitated a moment, then turned slightly left, heading for the front door.

He saw him through the window, sitting at his desk, but not hunched forward in an attitude of studying something. He was leaning back in his chair, probably staring off into the middle distance.

Mark hesitated again, wondering if he should interrupt, but then it was too late. By mere happenstance, or maybe some subliminal signal, Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder and saw him. Mark fought down a flush. It wasn't as though he'd been spying. He moved forward again almost jerkily, as if to give the impression he hadn't halted at all.

"How's Teddy?" the judge asked, as McCormick stepped into the room.

"Sleeping. He'll be okay." Mark thought about that for a moment and amended it, "Or at least not any different."

Hardcastle nodded once in what looked like complete understanding, then he added, "And how are you?"

"Okay, I guess," he said, trying to make it sound nonchalant as he wandered over to a chair and sat down.

"He didn't really believe that, did he? I mean that he'd killed that woman." Hardcastle had obviously shifted gears, back to the subject of Hollins. Mark let out a small, and he hoped unnoticeable, sigh of relief.

"Nah, or, well, if he did, it's just as easy to persuade him back the other way. That's what's handy about Teddy. It's kind of like working with Silly Putty." Mark tilted his head back. Now that he was sitting up, he felt tired again. "Nah," he added quietly, "a couple of days, he'll be fine."

"Good."

He heard it. His eyes were closed. He thought about dragging an ottoman over, so he could put his feet up, but it seemed like too much work.

"And you didn't believe it?"

Mark felt his eyes jerk open again in involuntary surprise, but he managed to keep his head from turning to the right. The question was ambiguously worded but he had a suspicion that Hardcastle had shifted gears again—lanes, even. He managed a vague and noncommittal 'um'.

"_Your _confession," Hardcastle added, "the one you signed."

"Hell, no," he said sharply. He was surprised at his own indignation.

"I dunno," the judge went on, almost as if he hadn't heard Mark's tone, "this undercover stuff, I've known guys who'd slip in and out of roles so often that they'd forget what was real, who they really were."

McCormick got the impression they'd changed lanes again, no signaling intentions, either. He frowned.

"I'm still me," he said with what he hoped was calm self-assurance, "and that's who I've been all along," he added firmly. He closed his eyes again. He felt the frown soften. After a moment, he started up, slower and from a little further off. "Sometimes you have to pretend to be something you're not, just to survive." He sighed. "But lying is hard work; it's nice not to have to do it all the time." Then, after a much longer pause, he murmured, ". . . and I'm _not_ a snitch."

There was a silence that must have gone on for a while, then a sound like a half-snore. It might have been his. He heard Hardcastle shift in his chair and then the click of the switch on the desk lamp.

"Nah," he heard him say, "not a snitch," and then, very quiet, almost to himself, "just a good guy."


End file.
